


Human Perspective

by skydark



Category: Supernatural, deancas - Fandom, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M, Team Free Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 109,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skydark/pseuds/skydark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 8x23 AU.  After the fall Dean realizes he's not trying teach Castiel to be human for purely selfless reasons; he hopes to gain something from it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And there was silence in the House of Judgement

He dripped resentment. It trailed along behind him like a slug's trail all the way down the hall. Bitterness oozed from his pores. When he opened his mouth, it bubbled out and ran down his chin, down the front of his borrowed clothes. His eyes held accusations that couldn’t get past the pupils and he held defiance against him like a blanket against the cold. He hissed hate, or what he perceived as hate, toward a humanity he once cherished. And he meant not a word. He was so lost in himself and lashing out: everyone does it, everyone uses pain as a weapon. And for a while, if the pain is great enough, they don’t care who they hurt.

There is no choosing your battles wisely when everything is your battle.

“This is just _basic stuff_ ,” Dean Winchester yelled down the hall at the retreating form. " _It's shit you gotta know, you dumbass, not everyone is going to give you a pass!_ ”

Castiel whipped around, drew back his arm, and threw the tube of toothpaste as hard as he could. Dean ducked to one side of the hall and it bounced off the wall, landed at his feet.

What Dean really wanted to do was chase Cas down the hall, grab him by his fucking fat head and slam him into the wall until he was unconscious. Then he wanted to drag him into the bathroom and chain him to the toilet and stick the toothpaste tube right up his … but he couldn’t, of course, he wouldn’t. Breathe, repeat the mantra of Sam. 

You gotta give him some time to adjust. You got to give him some time to adjust.

Speaking of Sam, Dean reached down and snatched the toothpaste tube up. Cas had retreated into his room, baring his teeth like a wolverine _(oh sweet defiance)_ and slammed his door. Sam was probably brimming with questions about this current exchange and would use it as an excuse to get out of bed if Dean didn’t head him off. So Dean went down to the other end of the hall, paused at a doorway, tapped on the frame. He wasn't going to ask if Sam was awake: there was no way he slept through that.

“What’s it this time?” Sam said from inside his room. Dean leant around the door frame, took a long, deep breath.

“Hygiene,” Dean said. “He has these insane bouts. He will take five baths in three hours, but suggest he brush his teeth and he loses his shit. I don’t know, Sam, I don’t know, I’m this close to beating the shit out him, I swear.”

**

Sam at least looked better today. Slowly, surely, day by day Sam had more energy. He wasn't as pale. The coughs subsided. But it wasn't easy and it wasn't quick. Early in their new co-habitation, Sam would wake to find Cas lurking like a vulture in his doorway. But Cas had telling eyes, and even though Sam tried to tell him it was okay, that he would be okay and that it was okay Cas couldn’t heal him _(because Sam knew that was what it was about)_ , Cas would finally stalk off in silence. Until he found Dean; then he would pick a fight.

Dean was the target of all of Cas’ rage. Sam knew why, but trying to explain it to Dean was a pins and needles subject. So he stayed mostly silent.

“Is he ever going to get over this?” Dean asked, still hanging on the door frame. “Or is he always gonna be like an old dog that hates the world finally but you can’t bring yourself to put it down?”

Sam took a deep breath. 

“Dean, yeah, he’s going to get over it. He’s been through a lot. Yeah, we’ve all been through a lot, but Cas … participated, y’know? I’m sure he feels like shit, I’d feel like shit, I did feel like shit for a long, long time. And you know, I’m just going to say this … quit trying to sit on him like a mother hen. I can hear you out there, hell, I even see you doing it when I’m out on the couch watching a movie. Let Cas stumble around trying to figure shit out. Let him come to you. He might be more manageable if you force him to ask you for help.”

“Or he could resentfully kill me in my sleep, great,” Dean smiled. “Thanks for all the sage advice. For now, while Senior Asshole is holed up in his room, I can at least listen to some music uninterrupted and think about what to make for dinner.”

“That’s great, Betty Crocker, why don’t you do that?” Sam said with a half-smirk.

Dean just made a face at him before moving back out the door.

**

Dean had a love affair with cookbooks. He’d managed to get a few, here and there since moving into the bunker. He had three of them out now on the big war room table, and he was sitting there in his chair, feet on the table, crossed at the ankles. He was reading about chicken marsala. It sounded fancy, yet simple, and the bonus was you could serve it over mashed potatoes, the world’s most perfect food. It seemed like a winner all the way around. He wasn’t aware Cas was there until he was. Cas was still a master of lurking.

Dean jumped, took a deep breath, leveled a look at Cas. 

“Fuck, what do you want?” and Dean internally winced because that came out a lot harsher than he intended. Cas kept perpetual dark circles under his eyes now from refusing to sleep. He resented sleep. He resented the need for food and wow, do not even get Dean started on the resentment Cas had for the need to go to the bathroom. That was just epic.

“Are you making food?” Cas grated out. “Don’t make me any,” he finished in a rush. 

The same old goddamn song and dance that has been going on for the last two weeks. But this time, Dean practiced the mantra of Sam.

“Fine,” Dean said casually, “I won’t.”

Startled, Cas stood his ground. This was clearly not what he expected. 

“I thought you said I had to eat,” Cas challenged, pulling his shoulders up. Dean wondered if that was a leftover from his wings, or some sort of trying to look big and intimidating gesture.

“Yeah, well, I decided you’re a fucking millennium old, you can decide when you fucking eat or what you eat or if you die of fucking malnourishment.” And Dean deliberately went back into his cookbook with his eyes. “You’re eons above me, remember?”

He knew Cas was still standing there, even if Dean wasn’t watching him because he didn’t hear him storm off in a huff. Dean would need to make a grocery run. He wasn’t sure they had any heavy cream for the marsala sauce. He leaned forward, picked up his pen and jotted it down on the notepad there on the table by his feet.

Dean had found inside himself reservoirs of patience he didn’t know he had; or, more correctly, didn’t know he had for anyone other than Sam. It was funny how well the angel had wormed his way in there. And yes, he would always and forever regard Cas as ‘the angel’, because even though he fell, just like all the rest of them, that is what he was. He had tried to remind Cas of that, in the last two weeks of their harrowing adventures. But Cas considered graceless to be worthless and therefore the title to be forfeit. Dean did finally glance up at him.

Cas was just standing there. When Dean looked at him he immediately threw up his defenses, ramped up his war machines, loaded his proverbial guns with all this rage and guilt: because it needed a target. And Sam was sick and Dean was … willing. Dean found he was willing: because Cas deserved someone who would take some abuse from him. God knew, he truly knew, all the abuse Cas took for others.

Dean returned to his cookbook. And it was quiet for a little while longer.

“Sam says you resent me mother-henning you,” Dean finally said, wondering if he’d get a response. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do; well, okay, I am, but that’s just until you learn the ropes. Then I’ll back the fuck off, scout's honor.”

Dean looked up as he heard Cas approach. Cas came to stand right next to him, looking down at him. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, gave a little shrug.

“Dean,” Cas said sounding more like Cas in that very moment than he had since they’d brought him to the bunker, but then he stopped. He just looked at Dean in that long, creepy way he use to when he had grace. The unwavering, unending stare: Dean shifted in his chair.

“Yeah, nice to know you can still do that, but I still can’t read minds,” Dean prompted. 

“Are you really not going to feed me?” Cas finally said, lifting his chin. 

Damn, they were so close to a real conversation, so close. But no, Cas had to challenge and posture and Dean just rolled his head back a moment, looking at the ceiling. Give him some time, that’s the mantra, right?

“Nope,” Dean said and looked down at his cookbook again.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Cas informed him and moved away. “What time is dinner?” he asked as his voice receded.

“You won’t be having dinner at seven,” Dean called after him, then leaned forward to jot down _pie_ on the notepad by his feet.

**

Seven o’clock came and went. Then seven fifteen, then seven thirty. At seven forty-three, Cas slunk in to stand beside the table and resentfully nibble at one fork full of plain mashed potatoes before he announced they disgusted him and dropped the fork on the floor. Then he looked at both Dean and Sam and curled his lip before slinking away.

But hey, at least he’d come to the table.

**

Dean was a genius and he was an adaptable genius and he learned a trick. 

This was how Dean approached Cas before:

He would knock on Cas’ door. Cas would open the door just enough for Dean to see one eye. The eye would stare at him with unwavering malice and Dean would put on his most charming smile.

“Hey Cas, we’re going to watch a move, why don’t you come out to the living room?”

Then Cas would shut the door.

The was how Dean approached Cas now:

He knocked on the door and Cas opened the door just enough for Dean to see one eye. The eye stared at him with unwavering malice, but less malice than the day before. Dean put on his most charming smile. 

“Hey Cas, Sam wants to watch a movie in the living room and you know, he’s still kind of sick. I have to do laundry, would you mind sitting with him for me?”

The eye looked Dean up and down like he had grown an additional head. Then a miracle happened. Cas opened the door and elbowed Dean out of the way. Dean watched him go down the hall, Dean heard Sam greet him from the living room. Dean Winchester’s work here was done. Now he had work in the laundry room.

Later Sam told him that Cas had slouched the entire movie and snorted with great derision at everything the main character said. When the movie was over ,Cas had glared at him a little bit, then left without a word.

But hey, at least he was out in the living room.

It was a far cry better than Cas hiding in his room, screaming at the walls. Yeah Dean liked it a whole lot better than that. The hiding in the room thing was disturbing. He would scream, in Enochian, for a good hour. He’d keep the door locked and if you rattled the knob he’d get hysterical and scream at you through the door in Enochian. Then, after about an hour he’d get eerily quiet. Only the threat of kicking the door in would get you the murderous eye and the door crack.

Yeah, that was pretty creepy, Dean had to admit.

**

Another week in and that was all the progress that he’d made. So Dean decided it was time to hit up the local Cas guru, and that was Sam. Sam was much better today. He was in the war room with a bunch of books and his laptop. He was probably making out with his laptop; the co-dependence he had with the thing bordered on mental. Dean came in with a beer, sat down next to Sam and screwed the lid off, took a long swig and made an ' _ah_ ’ sound. He did this because he was at home and could make whatever damn sound he pleased.

Sam glanced over at him, but then back to his computer.

“So tell me, you think Cas is getting any less crazy? It’s been three weeks. How long does the crazy last?” Dean drank more beer. 

“I think it could last a while,” Sam said, distracted. “It’s a lot to process for anyone.”

**

As if summoned by name, Cas came ghosting through the war room in bare feet and ragged jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt.

“ _Hey_ , that’s not a shirt you can wear,” Dean groused, pointing. “I fucking showed you which side of the closet you could rummage through.”

Cas stopped, turned slowly to regard Dean. Cas grabbed the t-shirt and pulled on it hard.

“Fuck, don’t stretch it.” Dean slammed his beer down on the war table and jumped up. Cas was unimpressed and continued tugging the shirt down as hard as he could; now he had a lot of chest showing. Dean snorted hard and came around the war table, then Cas scurried off like a cockroach and Sam heard Dean chase him until a door slammed and Dean yelled “Sonuvabitch!” to no one in particular.

Sam looked up as Dean came back to the table, threw himself down in the chair and scowled at his beer.

“Let’s just shoot him,” Dean said. “Put him out of his misery.”

“You know,” Sam said quietly, “for a few days there when we first brought him back? I thought we’d find him hanging by his neck from the rafters or bled out in the tub with his wrists slashed.” Sam gave an involuntary shudder. “He’s actually a lot better than I gave him credit for, considering he must feel responsible for everything.”

**

Dean had reached for his beer again and now he sat there holding it when it hovering halfway between the table and his lips. It didn’t occur to him to have those thoughts until Sam voiced them. Then he remembered a time, in a motel room: Cas complimenting his father’s handwriting, Cas talking about killing himself. His mouth felt dry; he wet his lips.

“So why didn’t he?” Dean said quietly.

Sam shook his head, leaned back in his chair. Dean knew this was Sam’s cue for a monologue, and why deny his baby brother the pleasure?

“Really, Dean, really? Are we going to keep having his dance around the subject?” Sam asked.

“I like to do the mambo, yeah,” Dean grinned at him, “don’t mean I can read your mind, so what the hell are you talking about?”

“The reason Cas didn’t kill himself, Dean, is pretty damn obvious,” Sam said flatly, “It’s you.”

Dean’s grin faltered then.

**

Dean Winchester was a degree holding master of Obstinate. He studied at the University of Obstinate in Denial Land, Didn’t Happenville. Sam knew he was following in the footsteps of their father. Dean Winchester had a committed relationship with avoidance. Since he was faithful, avoidance allowed him the ability to no only not discuss any subject of his choosing whatsoever, but also the ability to believe his own deniability. If Dean Winchester had decided, concretely, that it didn’t happen, it just didn’t happen for him, no matter what physical proof you had. This extended to conversation: if Dean didn’t want to have it, it wasn’t going to be had. But Sam had learned Get This Fu, and he could use it with deadly accuracy. 

“Get this,” Sam said and Dean jerked and squirmed in his seat. “The more you pretend this isn’t going on, the worse it’s gonna get. Cas is entirely focused on you, Dean. How you can’t see this, I don’t know. You notice he doesn’t go out of his way to provoke me, or torment me or stare at me like he wants me dead. He saves all of that for you. Why? Because he wants your acknowledgment and your attention. He is in a bad way right now, think about it: he lost God, he lost his home and he lost all his siblings. He has nothing but you and to a lesser degree, me. Nothing else, this is it for him, he knows it. He is testing you, he is pushing at you with all his might to see if you’re going to abandon him. It’s true, he thinks he’s worthless, he thinks this is all his fault. Nothing any of us say is going to change that. But you, you he needs like the air he has to breathe now. You are his one, true anchor to this world. If this had happened Dean and you hadn’t found him so fast? He’d be dead. I guarantee it. The only reason he has to keep going is you. You need to man up about it: Cas loves you, Dean, he’s in love with you, Dean. And you need to figure out how you feel about that.”

Sam would have said more on that, too, but he already knew just that much observation was going to take a lot of Dean processing time. 

“Honestly,” Sam added, “he could be a lot worse. I would have expected him to be a lot worse; he has it for you bad.”

Dean got up slowly and walked away.

**

There was a whole new weirdness to everything now.

Even Cas seemed to register it. Now it was Cas' turn to whip around and find Dean staring at him, and Cas even managed to look sort of creeped out about it. He stood there and fidgeted, waiting for Dean to try to reason with him; but Dean just stared. It was so unnerving to Cas the he fled without making subtle gestures of hostility. 

Sam was sort of impressed.

**

Then Kevin Tran came in and the spanner in the works managed to work himself into such new levels of self-loathing that an institute ought to be built just to study them.

Kevin was a prophet of the lord, Cas wanted to make sure they all remembered that.

"You participated in this colossal lie," Cas spat and paced back and forth behind the couch. Dean could only shrug at Kevin and maybe get up fast enough to stop Cas if Cas decided to run over to strangle Kevin.

Dean had assured Kevin that Cas didn't bite; but he was wondering if he'd been too hasty. They had an attack angel now; Dean started wondering how to use it.

"Chill out," Kevin said. If the whole fiasco did one thing and one thing only; it made Kevin Tran jaded to every damn thing on the planet. "It's not like we all worked miraculous cosmic powers here; we all got duped. We have just as much a right to a bout of crazies as you do, Cas."

" _Castiel_ ," Cas informed him, pausing behind Dean who was sitting on the couch to pant. Dean looked back at him, cocked an eyebrow. "My name has been corrupted just like everything touched by this godforsaken planet! It is truly godforsaken, we have actual proof! It's time to wash that influence away! My _name_ is _Castiel_."

"Hey, easy there, tiger," Dean said to him and Cas glared at Dean like he had laser eyes and could bore a hole into his head. Dean thought that maybe Cas really did want laser eyes to bore holes in people's heads. 

"Yeah, Cas, it's not like it's going to do much good now, is it?" Kevin said, rolling his eyes. "You can wash all the human cooties off and everything will be all right. Don't forget, you're a human now, too."

Dean winced a little, really wishing Kevin hadn't gone there. And then Dean did jump up, lock arms around Cas' chest and haul back. Cas had come over the couch at Kevin, and Kevin, not to be outdone, was ready for him, bracing in the chair, foot raised. But Cas didn't get past his nanny and instead writhed in Dean's arms like an unhappy cat. A strong, tall, adult male unhappy cat that Dean had to struggle to hang onto and drag back across the room. Sam appeared then and went to help Dean and got a foot in the stomach for his trouble. 

" _Hey_ ," Dean yelled right beside Cas' ear. "That's enough of this shit!" And Dean shoved Cas against a wall, released him and stood there, panting, challenging him. Sam stood back, rubbing his stomach.

"Dean, I'm okay," Sam said behind him. "What's going on?"

"Dickhead here doesn't want to be a human, that's the whole fucking problem. Well, guess what, you ain't got a fucking choice." And Dean, who had been holding a lot in, trying to be patient and fueled by Sam's revelation, decided to have his own screaming at the wall. Only Cas was flattened there, glaring at him.

"In case you forgot," Dean bellowed, "you fucking did this to _yourself_. Why you think you got a right to take your petty, resentful, self loathing out on us is beyond me! What have I done Cas, what have I done? You think that because you're human now, and not a fucking angel anymore, it makes you less somehow? What are we doing here then? Why did I fucking come looking for you even after everything? Sammy was sick and left him to look for you, what does that say to you? What does that say? You want me to call you Castiel? Like that somehow raises you up from being other than you are? Fine, Castiel. Does that make it better? Does that really negate everything now that we human shit bags are giving you respect by pronouncing your full name? I'm getting real done with you," and Dean paused, to breath. "Dean," Sam implored, sure maybe some of it needed saying but not this way, not being screamed into his face. Cas was just looking at Dean now, almost slack jawed and his eyes kept darting anxiously all over Dean's face as Dean screamed. 

"How about Castiel gets out of my _sight_ for a while, he's good at that," Dean snarled, and Cas moved then, both hands on Dean's chest, shoving him back, and then he did go, running off, slamming doors. Sam sighed.

"Bitch had it coming," Dean said to Sam, Dean justified to himself. "He can't just treat us like shit and not expect some payback."

"Dean, all he wants is payback," Sam said. "All he wants is for us to prove to him he is a piece of shit. Remember what he told you about Purgatory? If he didn't think he deserved to be saved then ... " Sam spread his hands.

"Just fuck this shit; I've had enough for the day," Dean said tiredly, then he looked at Kevin who gave him a little shrug. "Do me a favor, don't provoke him, all right? He has this thing going on, give him some room. Just ... avoid him if at all possible, you'll make all our lives easier."

"Yeah, because that's what I live for," Kevin shot back and Dean just turned away and walked down the hall himself.

**

Kevin looked up at the sound in the doorway. It was 3am; the Winchesters had sacked out long ago; but for the prophet, the need to sleep was a petty annoyance. Study and tablets made it all but obsolete, and now the habit was too hard to break. He saw Cas there, hanging back and eyeing him. Kevin just shook his head, dropped his eyes back to the book in his lap.

"Going to have another go at me?" he asked without looking up. "No Dean to stop you now. I'm not supposed to provoke you however, so if this is provoking, don't listen. You wake anyone up and you'll have the nanny out here in no time flat." 

"He would not wish for you to call him that," Cas said from the darkness in the hall. Kevin didn't know it, but that one statement was the closest Cas had been to himself for the last three weeks. But Kevin wasn't interested in the study of Cas _(not like Dean was)_ , so it had no impact; he didn't know its significance.

"So you're deciding what everyone is called now? Your hang up is names? Really?" Kevin did look up then because he heard Cas enter the room. But Cas just stood, right inside the doorway and let his gaze wander over the walls and the books and the table, but never directly on Kevin himself. 

"I knew you were fucked up, but I didn't know you were an extreme headcase," Kevin told him. "Dean seems cheerily optimistic at all times."

"It's a false optimism," Cas told him. "He uses it when he feels bad so others don't know he feels bad. Why are you awake?"

"Why are you?" Kevin challenged back. It was weird to see Cas like this, looking lost in his own skin and wearing Dean's hand-me-downs. Cas had always looked intimidating and tall and serious. Now he looked confused and hunched and angry.

"I don't sleep," Cas said and watched Kevin with a tilt of his head and squint of his eyes, and waited for Kevin's response.

"Whatever," Kevin said with real disinterest. 

Cas came closer, but kept something between them at all times. A chair, a table, some sort of barrier that kept him away.

"Are you angry?" Cas suddenly asked him. "Everything you love has been taken from you and you found out your purpose was a sham. Does that make you angry?"

"Damn right, it makes me angry," Kevin said, without sounding angry. "The universe is a great big lie. What do you think we have to live for? But you know what, I like being obsolete, so I guess that's something. I don't need to translate an angel tablet when there aren't any angels. And Crowley is ... you know, I don't know exactly what they did to him, but I don't want to know. If he doesn't come back like Dean and Sam say, that's good enough for me. Yeah, I'm angry, I'll be angry all my life. So what of it? Who is going to care?" 

Cas visibly flinched but Kevin just shrugged. 

"Dean says it's not a reason to give up," Cas quoted,. "Dean thinks it can all be fixed."

"Dean is blowing smoke up his ass," Kevin snorted. "He thinks he's got the pep talks down; but really? He has no more clue that any of us."

**

There was silence then, and Kevin returned to his book, and Castiel stood there, hugging his elbows. His feet were cold. Dean told him to wear socks but he didn't because he didn't like cold feet. Every little discomfort, the lack of sleep, the constant hunger, the cold; every little scrap he could gather he was saving for penance. But no one would care. 

No one but Dean.

And what did he matter? What penance to offer to what God in what heaven? He looked up then as Kevin got up, went to the side table, poured himself some whiskey from the decanter there. He looked at Castiel, shrugged, offered the glass. "Here, learn the fine art of drowning your sorrows. Dean is good at teaching that, he has this shit all over the place."

Castiel took the glass. He was versed in alcohol, probably better than anyone. He remembered its early days. He remembered the early days of everything. He used to pride himself on this knowledge; he used to want to share this knowledge. He down the drink in a single go and Kevin gave a low whistle, got the decanter to pour him another.

"So uh, what was it like, being an angel?" Kevin asked, because in his heart of hearts he was a provoker and he had to be true to himself.

But Castiel didn't bare his teeth or grow his laser eyes. He just looked at Kevin, tired and used and worn, and he shrugged.

"A lot like being a human without the need to take a shit," he sighed and then squinted at Kevin when Kevin laughed. "I'm serious," Castiel continued. "As it turns out, there are a lot of exacting parallels you can't ignore. We, as angels, have just found the apple and taken a huge proverbial bite. We being me, you understand." Castiel downed the second glass quickly and Kevin, apparently ticked with the idea of getting an ex-angel drunk, poured him more.

"I used to think it all made a difference," Castiel said, stuck his nose in his tumbler and sniffed his whiskey. "You can imagine my surprise when it turned out one of the real roots of the problem was the fact we could make a difference. This whole free will thing; I wonder what Dean was thinking when he suggested it. I'm pretty sure he didn't imagine this outcome. He's sort of defeatist now, it kind of sucks. I liked to taste his optimism a lot more. Sam's the light at the end of the tunnel guy for the foreseeable future. I don't know if Dean will ever get it back." Then Castiel drank his whiskey and held out his glass for more. Kevin had to go hunt down another tumbler.

Kevin brought back a bottle instead, nicked from behind the big bar in the other room. He filled Castiel's glass and looked at him expectantly. Castiel took a big gulp, shuddered, then another one.

"You want to hear more?" he said and when Kevin nodded he grinned. Whiskey was funny, he liked it, it made him smile. "What do you want to hear about? I'm a fountain of useless trivia, you do know how old I am," and Castiel looked at Kevin from under his brows.

"Yeah, you would like remind us every five minutes." Kevin took his own drink then. "Doesn't seem like it did you much good, look at you," and Kevin made a half gesture. "Sitting here getting drunk in an old band t-shirt like the rest of us non-heavenly slobs."

"I'm not even supposed to be wearing this one," Castiel said gloomily.

Castiel shrugged, took another gulp of whiskey, gave Kevin a sort of glazed, half smile. But he didn't elaborate any further. Instead, he worked his way through most of the bottle Kevin had retrieved, and resentfully fell asleep on top of the war table.

**

Paniced voices roused Kevin from where he was sleeping sitting up in the chair. He blinked his eyes open just as Sam came in, looking around, then Sam stopped, ran a hand through his hair, exhaled.

"Dean! I found him, he's in here ..." and Sam pretty much ignored Kevin and headed straight for the drunk angel sleeping on the table. Dean came rushing in then, went right over, hovered over him. Then after a moment he let go a breath, shook his head, looked at Sam.

"He's asleep," Dean said. Kevin could have told them that. 

"Drunk, too," Kevin said, just to be noticed. Both Sam and Dean turned to him then, Sam looking puzzled, Dean looking slightly pissed off. Kevin shrugged. "I was minding my own business, he came in and started talking and drinking. That's allowed, I'm taking it."

"Well yes," Sam said, but Dean cut him off.

"Talking to you like having an actual conversation?" Dean demanded. "Not just telling you how much he'd like to grind you under his heel?"

"Yeah, just normal, kind of whiny," Kevin supplied.

Dean looked at Sam, and Sam made a half hearted attempt to explain in facial expressions, but really, he had nothing. So Dean shook Cas hard.

**

Castiel started, gasped loudly and scrambled, it was all Dean could do to keep him from flipping himself off the table. Then Dean got him upright, feet on the floor and Castiel looked at him like he didn't know who he was. Then he coughed, his eyes went very wide, and he bent over and threw up on Dean's shoes.

"Oh Cas, no," Dean moaned. "Geezus, Sam.. "

Then Castiel was pawing at him, digging his fingers into Dean's shirt, and looking up at him with red and watering eyes, and Dean grabbed his shoulders to steady him. 

"Cas, what were you thinking? You gotta be more careful, you can't drink liquor stores anymore, see? You made yourself sick..." Dean was now reaching for the towels that Sam had brought.

And Dean was there, and Dean still cared, and Dean called him Cas. And he just started to cry, silent tears with no words and no explanation, and Dean wiped those up, too, before taking him back to his room to clean up and sleep.

When he managed to get one eye open, Dean was there. Sitting in a chair, beside his bed. He had his elbow on his knee, his chin in his palm and Castiel actually jerked when he saw him, and that made Dean grin.

"You know, I think this is going to be the only payback you get from me," Dean informed him. "See how creepy it is now? See what a creeper you used to be?"

What the hell? Oh he'd slept. He'd drank and he'd slept. How infuriating. He dragged the comforter over his head.

"Hey, I got a bone to pick with you," Dean said. Castiel freed one hand from the comforter, showed Dean he'd learned how to shoot a bird. Dean actually swatted it, and Cas snatched it back under the comforter, all offended.

"How come you'll talk to Kevin and not to me?" Dean asked him point blank. "Why does Kevin rate conversation and I'm worried you're going to poison my coffee? Is it some weird bond because he's a prophet or something? Are you guys commiserating over how much the meaning of life blows or something? Work with me here, Cas, I've been patient."

Castiel said nothing; he decided his best response was just to be a lump under the comforter. So Dean started to randomly slap the lump and the lump jerked and kicked it's legs and tried to roll away, an arm appeared and swatted in Dean's direction without connecting.

Next Dean grabbed the comforter and started tugging and Castiel hung on for dear life, silent and stubborn and scooted down the bed trying to stay under it as Dean pulled. But Dean won and he dumped the blanket on the floor and Cas curled up in a ball and tried to push his face into the mattress, hissing.

"Talk to me," Dean said with great persistence, and poked Cas once, hard, right in the ass.

"Don't touch me!" Cas wailed and kicked and climbed back up to the top of the bed and lay there like a snake, coiled and waiting to strike.

" _You talk to me, you fucking little prick, I am the one who gets to have the conversations_ ," Dean yelled at him, pounding the mattress with his fist.

Cas shot him a bird with both hands then and pulled pillows over his face. Dean gave an angry snort and came after him. Cas half-yelped, tried to scrabble away, got in one really good pillow slap to Dean's face before he was grabbed by an ankle, dragged back down the bed and Dean put a knee on the small of his back. Dean fucking pinned him there face down and humiliated, he couldn't wiggle free. He couldn't throw Dean off, he couldn't just be the presence in the room that overwhelmed everything. He screamed in fury so loud it brought Sam running. But Dean warned Sam off with a look and Sam retreated down the hall to worry. They were both slightly panting now. Finally Cas went limp.

"Talk to me," Dean said slowly and clearly. He pressed down hard with his knee for a moment, then he slowly removed it. He gripped Cas' shoulder, rolled him over on his back and loomed over him. "I mean it, Cas, you need to let me in on what's going on in there," and he tapped Cas' forehead. Cas whirled like an angry cat, grabbed Dean's wrist and held it. Dean didn't react, just let him hold his wrist. Cas started to squeeze it and still Dean didn't try to pull it away.

"You know, we can do this forever, or you can get your head out of your ass and start learning how to live," Dean told him. "You see me right here, Cas? This is where I'm going to be. You'll be my project, my challenge; you think you can make me stop trying? You got another thing coming. I'm going to be right here, you heavenly dick-head, until you decide to come with me out into the world. I told you once I wasn't leaving without you, and I'm telling you that again." Cas released his wrist, shoved it away and just lay there, staring up at him.

"Why is this so hard?" Dean asked. "Why are you doing this to me and you and Sammy? Come on, Cas."

"Why am I so important to you?" Cas suddenly asked and Dean faltered and blinked at him. It was like being asked point blank what is your favorite movie; how do you choose?

"Why wouldn't you be?" Dean answered a question with a question to stall for time.

"That's not an answer Dean," Cas said from his strangely passive position on the bed. "You want me to talk to you, and I am talking to you, so answer my question."

"Family," Dean said automatically.

** 

Castiel knew that answer was coming, he cherished that answer, but that was just how Dean tried to evade, and he wasn't having it. 

"I thought that was a given," Castiel said, "is that all you can come up with?" He was deliberately flippant: he wanted to provoke a response, he wanted Dean to get agitated, even angry. Dean being aggressive was so much easier to take than Dean being understanding. But Dean didn't rise to his bait and Castiel started to feel tightening in his stupid human chest.

"You want a laundry list of why I think you're important? Why I'd rather have you?" Dean asked him, tilted his head, looking down at him. "Is that what you need, Cas?"

Yes.

" _No_ ," he snarled aloud. It burned, it stung. He remembered those words from before when he was so lost in Sam's madness and there was Dean holding out his hand. And here was Dean, holding out his hand. Inviting Castiel in, showing Castiel that he would stand by him after all he'd done. Dean Winchester would help Castiel, angel of the lord, become human and he, Dean Winchester, would let him stay and never abandon him and never make him be alone with all he'd done. Dean Winchester was here to save him. 

Castiel covered his face, rolled over to present Dean his back.

" _Get out_ ", he screeched and he held his breath until he heard Dean leave and shut the door behind him.

If Castiel was ever really, truly going to do penance; if he was every truly going to suffer for what he'd done ... Dean Winchester was the one thing that Castiel could never have.

**

He didn't know what to do; at every turn any offer he made was rejected. He didn't want to lose this battle, this one was very important, but he had no idea how to win. 

He'd go make something. He'd make something that Cas wouldn't eat, but it was a thing to do and he needed to be doing. He went to the kitchen. Sam could see him there from the war room. Sam was looking at him all sympathy and curiosity. Kevin had retreated somewhere, probably a room to sleep off his hang over. Sam got up, sort of shuffled into the kitchen, sat on the bar stool at the counter there and tried hard not to pry.

"I don't know what to do with him Sammy," Dean went ahead and confessed, since he would sooner or later.

"Did he talk to you at all?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, a little. Wants to know why I want to keep him around and shit and when I try to tell him he starts screaming and tells me to get out." Dean shrugged, but it did hurt. He was surprised at how much it hurt.

"He doesn't think he deserves it, Dean," Sam sighed. "He doesn't think he deserves you. He's got ... angel mentality. He thinks he needs to be punished beyond the norms. He's going to deny himself everything he thinks might make him happy."

"Since when are you angel Psych 101?" Dean asked, pulling out bowls, ingredients, spoons.

"Since you started dating one," Sam said with a shrug.

Dean ceased all activity, turned and looked at Sam hard, gave him a disbelieving shake of the head. "Don't even start," he said, turning back to his bowls. "I'm not dating Cas, okay? And look, I know what you said earlier, but I think you're way, way off. I mean, if Cas is in love with me, like you claim, why the hell won't he just ... at least be civil to me?"

"Did you not hear everything I just told you?" Sam asked. "He doesn't think he deserves anything that might make him happy."

"Me? I would make him happy, me? Sam, you're my brother so I'm assuming you've been paying attention? This is me, the shit magnet. I don't make people happy, I pretty much do all I can to not make them dead."

"You know, you can be as obstinate as you want about it, but you know I have a point," Sam leaned over the counter more, "what are you making?"

"I'm making Cas a cake," Dean said with an exaggerated shrug. "I'll be fucked if I know why, like a cake is going to change anything. When he shoves it into my face at least I can lick myself clean. There, are you happy Sammy, I'm making the little angel who wants me dead a cake. It's nuts, it's all fucking nuts, look at me, I'm participating!"

"What kind?" Sam pushed.

"Just plain," Dean supplied, "thought I'd make some coffee frosting, though, he likes coffee, at least I think he likes coffee. He loomed over a cup anytime we used to go anywhere."

"I think he likes coffee," Sam said with a little smile. "You know, it's not only Cas being in love with you ..." Sam prompted.

Dean whipped around, pointed a spoon at him. "No," he said firmly.

Sam put his hands up in surrender and hung around to lick the mixer paddles after Dean made frosting.

**

Kevin had done enough damage and decided he was going to leave again for a while. There was little point in stopping him, and actually if Dean was truthful, he preferred dealing with Cas on a he-and-Sammy-only basis. 

As it turned out crooning the word _cake_ into Cas' ear had little effect other than to get Dean shoved in the face and ordered out of the room again. He and Sam sat around in the war room with two forks. They didn't even bother with cutting it or getting individual plates.

"You're really good at this," Sam said between mouthfuls. "You ever give up hunting you could probably start a restaurant."

Dean gave him a half-shrug, a half-smile, picked at some more of the cake in a disinterested way. 

Sam didn't really want to do this, but maybe he ought to. "When are you going to the store? I'm low on advil." Sam felt dirty.

"I can go right now," Dean said, getting up. "What else, you got enough OJ? I'll go have a look." Dean headed into the kitchen.

**

Sam waited until Dean had gone through the fridge and every shelf they had and tallied up a shopping list, and after he was gone Sam waited a little more before he went down the hall and rapped on Cas' door with his knuckles. Dean made the effort to always announce himself before barging right in; that was because he was never invited in, but maybe Dean had that privilege, considering, Sam wasn't sure he did.

"Hey uh, Cas? You got a minute?" Sam called through the door. "It's about Dean."

This got him a quicker response than he intended. Cas opened the door and looked up at him and Sam stumbled over what to say. "Uh, hi," he tried. Cas looked down the hall, left and right, then back up at Sam. 

"What about Dean?" he said in a reasonable and Cas-like tone. 

"Can I come in?" Sam gestured into the room and Cas hesitated before stepping back and letting Sam come in. The comforter was still on the floor, there was a mound of pillows by the headboard. There were small piles of Dean's old clothes on the floor that probably needed washing. 

"What about Dean?" Cas said again, behind him.

There was no easy way to have this conversation and Sam stood there trying to pick the least stimulating opening line. Cas squinted at him and tilted his head and Sam have him a smile, made a 'hang on' gesture and Cas squinted at him some more.

"Okay, let's just cut to the chase. Cas, I get where you're coming from, I do and you know I do. But it's like you're being just ... weirdly, overly a douche to Dean and I'm starting to wonder why. I mean I have my theories, I guess I just want to ask you to back off? Or something? He's sort of taking it hard."

Cas was motionless, but his eyes were scanning Sam's face, back and forth, slowly. "What theories would you like to put forth?" Cas asked, a small twitch in the corner of one eye.

"You have issues, Cas, great big _I'm worthless_ issues," Sam rushed ahead, "I know, me too," Sam tried camaraderie,"and you see Dean as something you'd like to have. Me, personally? I think you're in love with him," Sam threw up his hands, "hear me out. And I think he ... he probably loves you too and I'm pretty sure that's why you're trying to drive him off, because that's what you're doing, Cas. You think you don't deserve him and you're trying to get him to give up on you. Like you want some fucking weird validation of your failures and you're trying to use Dean to get it. I don't like it, it's hard on Dean. You need to move the aggression somewhere else and cut it off or ... let yourself have him. He's my brother, Cas, I don't like to see him hurt."

"You are full of shit," Cas enunciated slowly. "What makes you think I'm in love with your brother? We were fellow soldiers in a war. Love requires more than the ability to fight together."

"Wow, okay, so you're into self-denial, too. You and Dean together could probably self-deny the planet right out of existence." Sam shook his head. "Do you have no idea how many times I had to watch you eye-fuck Dean?" Sam asked.

Cas narrowed his eyes, flared his nostrils. "I... what?"

"You stare at Dean like you can't live without him, I don't get the two of you! Look, fine, just ... how about this. Leave Dean alone, how does that strike you? If you want to be a dick to someone, look in a mirror. Dean only wants to take care of you, so you either let him and you make an effort or you leave him alone."

Cas tightened his jaw, clenched his fists, stuck his chin forward. 

"You don't have any right..." Cas started shakily.

"That is where you are wrong, I got every right. Dean is my brother and I won't have him used like this. There is only so much more of this I'm going to tolerate. If you honestly want to go down the road of ripping yourself to pieces for all your infractions, then don't take Dean with you. I won't let you, are we clear?"

Cas said nothing, only stared at him.

"Cas, you're family, I mean it," Sam told him. "But you got to hold up your end of that, too." And Sam said all he felt he had to say and he turned away and walked out the door to get away from the look in Cas' eyes.

**

Castiel was pretty much impossible to live with for the next day. He locked the door to his room and refused to come out for any reason. Dean pleaded with him to eat. "Come on, it's just a sandwich, you're going to get sick then I'll have to take care of you and Sammy, come on Cas, please," and left food outside his door. But later, when checked, the food was there and untouched. Sam churned with guilt, but kept silent.

Sam watched Dean try to distract himself; to wait this out. He cleaned, he cooked, he went to the firing range for a good hour, he looked at the weight room and declined. He paced the halls and Sam thought about shooting him with a tranquilizer dart. Sam thought it was over when he persuaded Dean to go to bed (instead of sitting up drinking), but he should have known better. He heard Dean in the hall again, turned and looked at his clock, it read 2:13 am. 

He heard Dean pace, up and down the hall and stop a few times. He heard a door knob rattle once or twice, a muffled curse. "Dean, go to bed!" Sam yelled and punched his own pillow a few times. 

"Okay, fine," he heard Dean mumble in response. Then he heard Dean retreat back to his room, he heard the door shut, and that was the last he heard until morning.  

**

The second day serenaded Sam awake with the lovely and melodic sounds of Dean pounding on Cas' door just down the hall.  

"Cas!" Dean yelled through the door. "That's enough, unlock this door right now! You've been in there for a whole day. You either come out or I'm coming in!" There were several beats while Dean waited for a response. " _Cas_!" he warned again, then "Fuck it!" Sam heard the door slam back and he knew Dean had just kicked it open. So he got out of bed, grabbed his robe and jumped out into the hall just in time to see Dean stomp into the room.

**

Cas sat up wildly on the bed, he backed off the far side of it from Dean but Dean was not deterred. Dean pointed at him.

"I've had enough of you," Dean snarled. "You're bringing your ass into the kitchen, today, to eat goddamn breakfast even if I have to staple your ass to the bar stool."

"Stay away from me," Cas warned, his voice raw, his eyes red-rimmed and bright, and he backed away from Dean and pushed himself into the corner of the room.

"Cas, this is not you," Dean said, coming around the bed. "Whatever all this fucking is, it's not you. You have got to snap out of it man. You're better than this, stronger than this. I'm here! I'm right here, Sam is right here, trust us! Lean on us a fucking little, okay?"

Cas stared at him like he was an oncoming freight train and Cas had no where to go, he put a hand up as if to ward Dean off and Dean grabbed his arm by the wrist and pulled him away from the wall. That was when Cas whirled on him, drew back his arm and punched Dean, square in the face.

Dean felt the pop, heard the crack and swore. He felt the warm trickle down to his upper lips and when he raised his fingers to press there, he confirmed it: the angel had just given him a bloody nose. He backed up, looked at Cas and started to give him an exactingly loud piece of his mind. This was just it. But Cas was staring at him oddly, and panting, then Cas raised his arm again and Dean flinched back but Cas stepped forward, pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead.

But Dean's nose continued to bleed.

"That doesn't work anymore," Dean informed him, wiping at his nose again with the back of his hand, grimacing at the bloody streak it left.   Cas pressed his fingers harder and Dean reached up and grabbed his wrist, jerked his hand away, and let it go. "Fuck this shit," Dean growled. "This is the last time Cas, the last time I let you get away with it." He moved to turn, to go out of the room and Cas grabbed his arm, so he stopped and looked at him again.

Dean never knew the circumstances of Cas' fall from grace: Cas never elaborated and probably wouldn't ever elaboratee. Dean had seen the falling figures, the balls of fire in the sky, Dean knew what it looked like. But here, right now, in this morning, in this hallway, he truly watched Castiel fall for a second time.

All the color left his face. His eyes trained on the blood on Dean's lip. Then he looked down at his own hand, and up at Dean again.

"Cas?" Dean said, feeling a little uneasy about this. "It's okay, it's just a bloody nose." Sam arrived then, stood in the doorway.

"What's happening?" Sam asked.

Cas screamed. It wasn't like before, it wasn't rage and frustration. It wasn't accompanied by any words or orders to get out. It was anguish and terror and Dean himself jerked in surprise, pulled his arm away. Cas gasped loudly when Dean did this, took a few steps back and began shaking so hard Dean thought he was going to fly apart.

"Cas!" Sam said, moving into the room, but Dean was closer, beat him to it, grabbed Cas by his shoulders as he folded in on himself. They both went to their knees and Cas kept sobbing for air and shaking like he wouldn't ever stop and Dean looked up at Sam for help. What should he do? What was happening? Sam grabbed the comforter off of Cas' bed.

"Hold him," Sam ordered his brother.

"I am holding him," Dean returned, looking at Cas, who was an arm's length away, being gripped by the shoulders.

"Hold him against you and try to calm him down," Sam ordered. "I would do it, but I'm not the one he wants. Hurry, he'll work himself into a panic attack, let me put this blanket around you both."

Dean looked at Sam, bewildered, but then Cas started to cry. It wasn't loud, it was soft sobbing hiccups and tears and he slapped at Dean's arm and his fingers snagged in Dean's sleeve and he tried to grip it. That was enough. Dean hauled Cas against his chest, wrapped his arms around him while Sam wrapped them in the comforter.   Cas just laid against him and cried — low, sorrowful sounds, mumbled Enochian — and Dean started to rock him a little, not even conscious he was doing it.

"I'll make some coffee," Sam said, slipping out the room, making it more comfortable for Dean to comfort Cas and hoped it would be enough.

**

Dean pressed his nose to the top of Cas' head, he rubbed Cas' arm. He sat on his ass and pulled Cas fully into his lap.

"It's okay," he murmured, and was shocked when Cas answered.

"It's not, it's not okay, it will never be okay," Cas said, voice raw.  

"Yes, it will be," Dean told him. "I'm going to make it okay. I'm right here, I'm going to make it okay again."

"You can't," Cas insisted. His voice sounded like it was bleeding. "You can't promise that. You're just a man. I'm just a man. I'm useless."

"I'm just a man, I'm useless?" Dean questioned him. "That's how you see it? Funny shit that, I stopped an apocalypse with my useless manly self. So did Sammy. You just got blown up and got Bobby messy. We did all the heavy lifting and you showed up fifteen minutes late with a Starbucks." Dean smiled at his own joke, rubbed some part of Cas he had his arms around.

"I didn't have a Starbucks," Cas said, quietly, sounding sad and confused. 

And, oh, in that moment, Dean wanted to kiss him. Right there, in Dean's lap, Cas came back to  him.

"I was scattered atoms," Cas continued. "If I had a Starbucks I would have brought one for everyone ... why are you saying that?"

"Because you said being a man was useless. Yeah, okay, the Starbucks thing was irrelevant but it was funny," he pressed his nose against Cas' head again. "Cas, if you think that because you're not an angel anymore I'm not going to have any use for you ... then I'm doing something wrong." He felt Cas jerk in his arms, just a little.   "I know it hurts that you lost your wings, and I know there isn't much I can do about making that hurt go away; but you need to give being human a chance. Me and Sammy been doing it all our lives, it's not that bad. We need you here, I want you here. I don't know how many times I've said it, but if I need to say it every day, I will. It's going to be okay, Cas. There has to be some point where you finally start to trust me."

Cas pressed against him harder. His breathing was evening out and Dean guessed he wasn't crying anymore. And he was talking, just talking to Dean and Dean had missed this, so much.

"One of my greatest sins," Cas said very, very faintly, "was not trusting you more in the first place."

They just sat there together on the floor, wrapped in the comforter for a while; they didn't feel the need to say much more. But then Cas moved, pushed himself out of Dean's lap, got up and looked down at him. Dean watched him, got up after Cas was standing. 

Cas studied the floor between them. "I'll clean up for breakfast," he offered, not looking at Dean's face.

"Thank you," Dean said. "It's about time you started appreciating my cooking. I'll just go get it started. Just come on when you're ready." Dean walked out, down the hall and then swaggered into the kitchen. Sam looked up from his cup of coffee, where he was sitting at the bar.

"Well?" Sam said, watching Dean get out his apron and big skillet. "How did it go?"

"I got it covered," Dean said, "I'm making him breakfast. He is going to clean up and come to eat it."  
Sam let go a long breath. 

"I wasn't sure we wouldn't be taking him to a mental hospital again." Sam rubbed his eyes and then looked at Dean.

"What can I say," Dean spread his arms. "I'm just loaded with charisma and charm."

"That's real sensitive, Dean," Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. "What really happened? And try not to be an asshole, okay?"

Dean let his arms drop, gave Sam a look and went to get eggs and bacon out of the fridge. He came back over to the counter where Sam was sitting and leaned there, looked at him hard.

"I told him I was here for him, okay? I told him he wasn't useless." Then Dean pushed off the counter and went to the cook top. "Why are you so fucking nosy about it, anyways?"

"Because I don't want you to fuck him up anymore than he's fucking himself up," Sam informed him. "Are you scrambling the eggs?"

"You want cheese in them?" Dean looked over his shoulder.

"Why are you even asking me that?" Sam said, and poured himself more coffee.  

Then, slowly, quietly, Cas came into the room. He looked freshly washed, he was wearing a pair of Dean's pajama pants and one of Dean's band t-shirts and Dean's robe, probably taken right off the back of Dean's bathroom door. He came over not really looking at either of them, got up on a bar stool and folded his hands together on the counter top.

"Morning, Cas," Sam said, pouring him a cup of coffee without prompting and sliding it in front of him.

"Good morning, Sam," Cas said, pulling the cup toward himself by the handle, "thank you."

"I'm making eggs sunshine," Dean said, keeping his attention on the pan, "and bacon. Scrambled eggs with cheese good for you?"

"I ... don't know enough to have a preference, so, however you feel they should be prepared, that's how I'll take them," Cas said, finally lifting his eyes to look at Dean's back.

"Aha, a challenge. Scrambled today, tomorrow over easy, the day after sunny side up ... there's a list, we'll go through them one by one until you figure out which you like best," Dean said, still turned away.

"I don't want you to go to any trouble," Cas said. "Just however you're making them that day, that will be fine."

"No trouble," Dean said, blowing it off.

Cas sat there quietly. They were all quiet in this awkward newness; in the Sam and Dean plus one situation. Cas took a deep breath.

"I want to apologize," he said. And both Dean and Sam turned to him.

"No, Cas," Sam said first. "Cas, this is a clean slate for you, a whole new life. Let's start it right now. No apologies."

"I'm with Sammy," Dean said, breaking eggs into a bowl. "This is Castiel, the reboot. Everything is new."

"You're always far too good to me," Cas said quietly.

"Now that I agree with," Dean said, and Sam snorted.

**  
Castiel's acceptance of his fate didn't mean anything was going to be smooth sailing. He was, after all, an angel of the lord and a colossal know-it-all.

"If you would read the instructions," Cas said calmly, one week and two days into his new life, "then hooking this up should be simple enough." Cas had pulled every piece of paper out of the box the new DVD player had been packaged in, and proceeded to read it. Dean informed him it was a threat to his manhood, Sam encouraged him to be informed; Sam predictably won.

"You two should form your own little nerd club," Dean told them, carrying the player over to the TV and turning the TV around to hook in wires. "Now watch how a real man just intrinsically knows how to do this."

So they both watched him hook in the wires, the rearrange them, then rearrange them again. He muttered to himself, tried each new set-up at least twice.

"Maybe we should go out and find a real man," Sam said to Cas.

"This is a damaging blow to his ego, we shouldn't really mock him yet," Cas told Sam. "We should wait until he shows the appropriate amount of contrition at his failure."

"Okay, you fucking nerds, you do it then," said Dean. He got up and made room and Sam came over and hooked the player up and Cas turned it on and it worked perfectly.

"So it's two against one now," Dean snorted. "I see how it's going to be. So you always going to be hooking up with Sammy?" It sort of stung and Dean wasn't aware why, but whatever, Cas should be on his side.

"I don't wish to take sides," Cas said by way of placation. "But you were informed there were instructions; you could at least acknowledge this was a lack of foresight."

Dean sucked his lower lip, nodded, got up and went over and got up the box for the trash.

"Please don't be upset at your failure to route minor electronics properly," Cas said, trailing along behind him. "If it's any consolation you almost had it right the second time you tried."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Dean said, stopping to look at Cas.

"I didn't want to impede you being a man?" Cas said, looking confused. "You'll have to forgive my severe lack of human evaluative processes, I'm working on it."

Cas had this ability to insult the shit out of you but sound so honest and sincere while doing it that you wanted him to insult you some more. Plus, he seemed kinda sensitive to pissing Dean off to the point Dean was picking up on it and not having it pointed out by Sam.

"No, don't sweat it, you were doing me a favor," Dean reassured him, heading off with the box again. "Tell Sam you get to pick the movie tonight," and Dean took the box to the incinerator and left it there for the next time they fired it up.

When he came back he saw Sam in the war room and went over to see what he was looking at.

"Maybe," Sam told him as he approached. "It's time we got back in the hunt?" Dean looked at the opened news papers. Truthfully, he was missing it, but he'd had Sam and Cas to look after. Could it be, despite it all, that things were getting back to normal?

"We got weird deaths all over the place," Sam said, "and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I want to go on a road trip."

Cas joined them then, came over to the table to look down at the paper.  

"So Cas, remember when you wanted to be a hunter?" Dean asked him, "did you mean it?"

Cas looked between the two of them.

"I want to help in any way I can, and I find your profession noble, so yes, I want to be a hunter," Cas told them solemnly and Dean looked at Sam and grinned. 

 **

Castiel trailed along behind Dean on the sidewalk. Sam came after him. It was funny, to be walking between them like this; usually he walked a little ways back and to the left, so he could watch where they were going; now he just watched Dean's back and followed.   He wasn't sure what to think about that; but he went with it as Dean knew where they were going and he didn't.   

They went into a store front. He read the letters above the door as Goodwill, and he thought that was a pleasant name for a shop. A shop that somehow, through the purchase of mass-produced items, generated goodwill among people. He could only assume his terminology was correct; otherwise he could quiz Sam about the implied meaning of the name; but neither seemed important at the moment.

Dean had mentioned they were going to obtain Castiel his own 'wardrobe'. Castiel really didn't see the need for this expenditure as Dean's wardrobe was more than adequate to cover himself with. But after a few t-shirt mishaps with various foods and household chemicals  (and that one unfortunate stretching incident he still felt slightly guilty over), Dean had relegated him to a very limited wardrobe of just one t-shirt from a band he really didn't like. It had a hole in the front and Castiel had nervously picked it much larger than it had been.  

The store was fairly clean but sloppily organized. Castiel started to point this out, but Dean caught him arm and brought him over to a rack of shirts.   

"Here, let's get you some of your own shirts to ruin," Dean told him, then released his arm and started to shuffle through the racks. Castiel noted that Sam didn't participate in this activity, but rather he wondered up and down the aisles with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Then Castiel's attention turned back to Dean when Dean took a shirt off the rack and held it up to him.   He gave it to Castiel to hold and Castiel put it back on the rack.

"Dude, what gives? Hold that one," Dean told him.

"I fail to see why you are picking out my shirts," Cas said calmly, starting to move things on the rack on his own. "You won't be wearing them so I think the predominant deciding factor should be my own. The shirt you gave me was plaid.   If I wish to conform to the standards of Winchester dress I might have chosen that; but I believe it's more of a brotherly connection between you and Sam; so I will pass on the plaid."

Dean was giving him a confused look ,and Cas gave a little shrug and cycled past many shirts on the rack before pulling out one himself.   He held it up on front of himself, like Dean had done with the previous shirt. The fabric was faded and softened from many washings. It had a collar and Castiel found he preferred that to the collarless t-shirts he'd been wearing.   He hadn't thought of it before, but now, given the choice, he did. 

"I like this one," he told Dean. 

"Okay, great, I guess we'll have to find out how it fits, find some more," Dean prompted him.   

Cas hung the shirt back on the rack being careful to keep it segregated from its fellows, then he pulled his t-shirt off over his head and took the new shirt he was contemplating and pulled it from its hanger and started in on the line of buttons down the front of it, flicking them open.

**

Dean caught a glimpse of Sam. Sam was sort of hopping in place and making exaggerated head gestures and pointing with his chin. Dean stood there, one eyebrow raised, and wondered if Sam realized what a spectacle he was making of himself. He then twigged after a moment that Sam was trying to get him to look at something. So he straightened up and turned around and looked at Cas half-naked there in the aisle behind him.

"Cas," he hissed, trying not to draw any further attention to them," what the hell, dude? What gives?" he deliberately kept his voice down.

Cas paused, in the process of putting one arm into a sleeve, and looked at him, squinted at him, tilted his head.

"I'm putting on this new shirt you will purchase. The other shirt has a hole in it," Cas informed him.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, but you know, you could have waited until we got home," Dean said.

Cas just looked at him, then shook his head and proceeded to shrug the shirt on, to work on fastening its buttons back up, then he looked up at Dean, smiled and said, "There is a human taboo about nudity in public places. I completely forgot. My apologies." Then he picked up the discarded t-shirt and offered it to Dean, "This is yours, thank you for letting me borrow it."

Dean came forward, snatched it and wadded it up in his hands. "Ok, so you get it, no getting naked in the Goodwill; no matter what kind of awesome song title that might be."

Cas gave him a serious nod, after a moment he added a 'thumbs up' sign.   Okay, the angel got it, good. Good thing they caught him before the pants section.

Dean stopped helping, he just stood by and let Cas paw through the racks himself now. Sam abandoned them, waved at Dean as he pointedly went out the door and Dean let that wave stew in his stomach so he could come up with a good Sammy payback at a later date. When he turned back to Cas, Cas was sniffing a shirt now. He held up his arm and sniffed the shirt he was wearing, then he sniffed the shirt he had in his hands. 

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. If Dean was honest with himself he sort of liked hanging out and watching Cas struggle with culture shock. Not because he got some perverse pleasure out of it; not that at all.   But more being there while Cas discovered things for himself, being able to answer questions, being able to help him.   

"I just enjoy the olfactory sensations," Cas told him. "Every garment smells the same and different."   And that was it, no further explanation. Cas returned the shirt he was sniffing to the rack.

"You know, you don't have to be so formal," Dean told him and Cas turned to regard him, expression open and friendly. "Like we don't say olfactory, we say smell," Dean supplied helpfully.

"So my manner of speaking is pretentious?" Cas asked, frowned a little. "In all this time you're known me, you never mentioned this."

"Well you used to be... " then Dean stopped. "I mean you didn't use to be so public," he managed to gesture around, even though he had his hands in his coat pockets.

"I was always public," Cas said. "Are you saying because I have fallen from grace I should speak differently? I don't understand how that is of import."

"Well I guess it's not," Dean said, "it's just it sort of sounds funny now."

Cas twitched and eyebrow. "Sounds funny now? As opposed to what, when I had grace? It sounds funny now that I'm one of you, is that what you're saying?"

"I guess," Dean said, sort of eyeing Cas and sort of knowing that somehow, this was pissing Cas off.

"Well _fuck_ ," Cas said loudly, and Dean ducked down and whirled around and looked at people staring at them now. Cas pulled a few more shirts off the rack. 

"Why didn't you say something before you brought me out in public," Cas continued loudly, "I should, after all, learn to moderate my tone or something, right?"

"Ok I'm sorry," Dean pleaded. "Just don't be psycho on me now, okay? Okay? I'm sorry." Dean gave him big 'please don't embarrass me' eyes. Cas threw the shirts at him, stalked over to the pants section, selected a pair, and sat on the floor and pulled his boots off. Then he stood, undid his borrowed jeans and dropped them. It wouldn't have been so bad if Cas weren't totally commando because buying him underwear was something they were going to do after buying him clothes.

Dean gathered up everything Cas had thrown then gingerly approached him as he was trying on pants and just being thankful the button-down he was wearing was long enough to cover most of him up.

"Cas," he stage-whispered, "don't get us arrested, dude, come on, be mad at me out in the car."

Cas looked at him with narrowed eyes, wiggled his ass into the jeans he got off the rack, then buttoned and zipped them up. He bent down and picked up his boots and he walked over to Dean and got inappropriately close and leaned in. Dean swallowed, didn't retreat and sort of leaned back.

"I think we need a talk about boundaries," Cas told him, quietly. "I was trying to be good; maybe you failed to notice and here you come thinking you are some kind of expert on etiquette. From what I have observed, even in my short time here, is that you have no more idea of how to act in a socially correct way than I do; and that's not points in your favor. Sam, I think, has more of a grasp, so I'll take my social cues there, you," Cas poked him in the chest then,"keep your opinions to yourself.   Now go and pay for these clothes so we can leave."

And Dean scurried away to do it. What the fuck just happened?

After Dean paid, they went out and put everything into the trunk, then Cas hopped up on it and put his boots back in. He kept looking at Dean, but Dean kept looking away.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," Cas told him, "but you are notorious for needing a hands-on education."

Dean whipped his head around to look at him. "What? Who told you that?"

"Sam." Cas shrugged and slid off the trunk to stand beside him. Dean looked at him, standing there close, looking off down the street. He was in a faded button-up shirt with some sort of really washed-out design on it, and borrowed boots. He had a day's beard on him, halfway shaved back, sort of like he did it himself, and he looked like Cas but not.   And it was weird and when he turned to catch Dean looking at him, he squinted, and okay, that was less weird because Cas did that all the time.

"Uh, Sam's probably off in a bar somewhere, and it probably has food," Dean said as he pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open. "Let me find out and we'll go join him and have some lunch."

The phone rang and Sam picked up and told Dean which bar he was in and Dean looked down the street, then clicked the phone closed and headed off, expecting Cas to fall in step behind him. Cas did it, like clockwork, and Dean slowed until Cas was abreast. They walked quietly and then when they got to the bar in question, Dean elbowed Cas and nodded at it and went over and opened the door for him, and Cas hesitated, then gave Dean a wry look before preceding him in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Pappcave


	2. The good I have hidden thou didn't pass by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being human is hard even if you are a human.

Dean was rather disappointed; and he shouldn't have been, in reality it was idiotic that he should be. He wasn't sure why he was disappointed, only that he was; and fuck, he could run himself in circles with this all night. But he stopped because Cas was there, looking at him. He came forward, hit the little button and reeled the target in from down range. It had a series of neat holes almost in perfect alignment down the center of the head, then the chest, and another line of neat, precise, almost aligned holes going from shoulder to shoulder. Cas ejected the clip from each hand gun and checked the chamber to make sure it was empty. He smiled at Dean as Dean inspected his marksmanship and took off his ear muffs.

“How did you even do this," Dean asked, awed and sad that he wouldn't be teaching Cas to shoot.

"Mathematics," Cas said proudly. "For the horizontal direction you use X=Vi*cos(theta)*t and for the vertical direction you use Y-Vi*sin(theta)*t - 1/2gt^2," and he stood there, obviously expecting praise when Dean didn't have the first fucking clue what Cas had just said. So, "Nice shooting," he tried, and Cas nodded, satisfied.

"I know," Cas said, fitting the handguns back into their cases. "It's all pretty simple when you understand propulsion." He shrugged, locked the cases up and Dean helped him put them away. "So can I go hunting now?" Cas asked him as they made their way back to the war room. "I do realize this delay in our departure was your way of making sure I wouldn't pose a liability to your efforts." Dean slapped him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, you can go hunting now, you can run and tell Sammy you passed," he told Cas with a smile.

"You think I haven't picked up on the insinuation I'm some sort of schoolchild earning grades and I need to run and tell someone the good news," Cas said. "It makes me want to break one of your kneecaps if I'm honest with myself," and Cas smiled at him pleasantly. Dean gave him a tight little smile but then Sam appeared and Cas grinned.

"I can go hunting now, Sam," Cas said and Dean rolled his eyes and wondered why he even bothered.

**

The good thing about having Cas on a hunt was he didn't scare easily. In fact he didn't scare at all; and while Sam and Dean both still occasionally jumped when things tried to eat them, Cas would very calmly start shooting. It was a pretty good asset. He was also a handy, walking, supernatural encyclopedia which threatened Sam's beloved laptop, and sometimes Sam would sulk off with said laptop so they could have some alone time. To say Cas was a know-it-all wasn't much of an exaggeration. Dean found once he showed Cas a task, just once, Cas learned it within the span of minutes, sometimes moments. This, of course, meant straightforward tasks: for things that took some creativity, like cooking, Cas was intuitive but not as quick. He often stood and watched Dean cook, asked a million questions and nosed in at any given occasion. He ate the raw ingredients, all the while asking how he could help.

“You could help by not eating these as I chop them up,” Dean would inform him. Cas would hurriedly stuff a few more into his mouth, apologize with his mouth full and stand back. “You're a freakin' menace,” Dean would inform him with a smile and Cas would stand there, looking unrepentant and shaggy with his messy hair and barely shaved face, and Dean would wonder why he even noticed those particular things. Dean wondered about this settled life he was living and how long it would last. And as it turned out, like most things good in his life, it didn't last.

**

It was a suicide that started it. They caught it on the evening news and then when it was re-showed the next morning on the local news in the motel near the Kentucky border. They'd come from a hunt, had stopped to spend the night, and the shower rotation had started. It was Sammy's turn and Dean was done so the only one left was Cas. While they packed up Dean had switched on the news and the story of the suicide began to play. Dean didn't pay much attention, doing a sweep to make sure nothing was left behind, but Cas had sunk down to sit on the end of the bed and give the screen his rapt attention. There was a young man, perched on the ledge of a bridge. He was screaming about wings, he was saying he could fly. Dean looked over when he heard what he thought was Enochian coming from the TV set, he looked over just in time to see the man jump. The camera, mercifully, didn't follow him all the way down. Cas leaned forward, pressed his fingertips to the screen.

Crap.

“Cas, was it an angel?” Dean asked quietly.

Cas didn't say anything. He got up, switched the TV off and grabbed up the nearest bag, ducked out the door with it. Dean watched him go, a bit uneasy, finally grabbing up his own bag to follow. Cas stood next to the trunk and Dean came over, keyed it open and they both threw their bags in, then Dean shut it.

“No shower?” it was the only conversation starter he had at the moment.

“Do I stink?” Cas said listlessly, but playing the game he knew was expected of him.

“No, man, no, look ...” Dean leaned back against the trunk, folded his arms. “We're gonna run into it, in fact I'm kind of surprised we haven't run into anyone yet. I just wonder what that's going to be like — for you mainly. I mean, will they even know? Would they know us? Would they know you on sight now that you're not connected anymore? I guess, Cas, I'm asking what you want to do about it?”

“What can I do about it? So I guess I don't want to think about it, and least of all want to talk about it,” Cas said, looking up at him finally.

“Don't tell Sammy I said so, but we could do that,” Dean offered. “You and I, we can not talk about it until the cows come home. I can't promise for Sam.”

“Understood,” Cas said, “and thank you.”

Sam chose that moment to yank the motel door open, towel around his waist, just to make sure the bastards hadn't left him there as a prank.

**

But then Cas started looking for them, despite what he said, and he tried to hide it from Dean. But there was only so much he could do; they both looked at the same papers, Dean could stroll by while he monitored any news program. The computer was usually shared among them (well Dean's was, Sam was very possessive of his laptop). Dean would look at him, a clear question in his eyes, but then he'd seem to remember a promise and so he wouldn't speak; and ultimately, as predicted, it was Sam who brought it up. 

It was after dinner one night, sitting at the war table.

“Hey, Cas, these articles you keep creasing in the paper; do you think they are angels?” Sam asked, not knowing he was treading on a pact. “It sort of fits the MO, I guess. What's odd is some of them are people who've recently relocated, people who are new to a technical or teaching position, even one who was called out on false credentials for a mathematics job; if they are trying to fit in, then why suddenly kill themselves?”

“The void,” Cas said quietly and glanced at Dean. He never said he would hold Sam to the pact, and maybe it would be good to get some of it out. He watched both Sam and Dean wait for him to continue. It was his practice to withhold elaboration until it was asked for; it was his way of making sure they were interested in a topic and would pay attention.

“What void?” Sam asked and Dean bit down on his lips because he promised he wouldn't talk about it.

“The one in here,” Cas tapped his head, “the absolute silence. What you don't understand is angel radio was a continuous thing; whether I was participating in it or not, it ran in the background of my every moment. A friendly white noise I could join anytime; the thoughts and observations of my brothers and sisters. Now it's only silence. I know you have a hard time grasping the concept of what a hive mentality is like; I can speak from experience now that I'm a human, too. I suppose, after a bit, some of us can't cope with the isolation; and though we try, we are not cut out to be here. It was just a matter of time before these things surfaced.” Cas went quiet then, put his elbows on the table, pressed his hands together like a prayer and then rested his lips against them.

“There isn't anything we can do?” Sam asked. “Nothing at all? I mean you seem to be handling it pretty well; aren't you?”

“I've had more experience. I have for a while done without,” Cas said slowly.

“But maybe that's something you can teach,” Sam said. “Shouldn't we try to reach out to some of them? You've been actively looking for them.”

Cas was silent, it wasn't as if he didn't appreciate Sam's compassion, and he understood it; but why would any of them want help from him? How could he face them? What would he say? What could he offer? Here he had cursed them to this human existence; this body of flesh and blood, this miserable course; what could he possible do to make any of it better?

What he really knew, of course, is that he was a coward. What he knew is he would buckle under the weight of their looks and their words and he could only imagine the accusations; and they were right of course; if they fell on him and tore him limb from limb they were within their rights. 

“Sam,” Dean said quietly and Cas looked at him then, looked at him because Dean knew. Dean always knew. Sam looked at his brother and Dean gave a slight shake of his head, so Sam retreated with his questions and an apologetic look which Cas could hardly bear, either.

After Sam was gone, Cas turned to Dean. “You shouldn't have stopped him,” he half-whispered.

“I'm not going to stand around and watch you drag yourself over the coals,” Dean told him. “It won't solve anything, it will just hurt you.”

“You forgive far to easily,” Cas said, hating the quaver in his voice. “And far to often, I wonder Dean, when you would ever hold me accountable.”

“If I'd found you dead, I would have held you accountable,” Dean said, looking off into the room and not directly at Cas. Cas felt his chest tighten, like it always did, when he had these particular moments with Dean.

Neither of them had anything more to say, but neither of them wanted to leave the others company; so this finally progressed into Dean fetching them both a beer and turning on the news.

**

Cas whipped the throwing knife down the range, hit the target right in the throat.

“Fuck,” Dean snarled. Sam just grinned.

“You act like you expected me to be less than proficient with a blade,” Cas snorted. “You do remember that a blade was my weapon of choice?”

Dean said nothing, gave him a dirty look, stepped up to take his turn. His grip was all wrong, and Cas cleared his throat loudly. Dean turned to look at him.

“Your using a blade-heavy knife,” Cas informed him, “so place your index finger, middle finger and ring finger center on the hilt, let your little finger just hang down the side, put your thumb directly on the other side of the handle.”

Dean tried this a moment, Cas came over to help him and Dean huffed and pulled the knife away and did it himself. Sam shook his head.

“Step forward when you throw,” Cas told him, looking at him very intently as if it was very important he teach this to Dean properly on the first go. “Don't be timid, throw it very hard, make sure your shoulder is facing the target.”

Dean was watching Cas now, nodding, and Sam was leaning against the stand. He gave Dean an encouraging thumbs up.

“You can do it, Dean,” Cas said urgently.

“Okay, quit going on about it, let me think,” Dean told him. “You're crowding me.”

“If you think about it too much, you'll hesitate and then you won't make a good throw,” Cas said, hoping back a step as if to give Dean room. “Throw it now, throw it hard!”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, looking very much under pressure. He eyed the target and wet his lips.

“What are you waiting for, your opponent has rushed you and stabbed you by now, you're dead!” Cas said, lifting and dropping his arms.

“Shut up,” Dean said, “I want to make sure I do it right, okay? Is that okay with you, I'm trying to do what you told me to, back off!” 

Cas took a deep breath, took another step back and clenched his fists.

Dean threw the knife and it sailed way off target, hit the wall and clattered the ground. Both he and Cas just looked at it silently. Then Cas spoke.

“Don't despair, you have a lot of potential,” Cas said.

“You think I suck,” Dean returned. “I can just hear it in your voice, you think I suck at this.”

“No,” Cas said, “why would I think you suck at this? You just clearly have a bad stance and no ability to aim properly.”

“Here we go,” Dean said, “come on, this is just like when you thought I was supposed to automatically know how to use that coke machine with the billions of choices and no clear instructions.”

“I love that machine,” Sam said, “I love cherry Sprite.”

“Hey, you shut up,” Dean told him, “it's not a clear cut and dried experience, okay? And no one there was willing to give me any advice.”

“I was,” Cas said, “but you told me there would be no way I'd know how to work it, being something of an isolationist and hostile to changes to my funny little routine. That's a direct quote.”

“Rub it in, go ahead, both of you, rub that in,” Dean said. “The fact of the matter is I can never show my face in that Five Guys Burgers ever again.”

“It's a shame,” Sam said, “they are really good.”

“Sam and I think of you when we eat there without you,” Cas said.

“Nice,” Dean said, “thanks. Okay, lesson over for today.”

“But, Dean,” Cas appealed, “you haven't hit the target once. If you hit the target, Sam and I will go to Five Guys and get you a burger.”

“And an orange Sprite,” Sam promised.

“You know what, I don't need your pity,” Dean told them, “I make damn fine burgers on my own.”

“The have amazing fries,” Sam said, not to argue, but really, to argue. “You make good fries, too.”

“I think Dean's cooking is superior to any of the food we eat in establishments outside the bunker,” Cas said. “I prefer it and I'm always somewhat disappointed when we go out.”

Dean worked his jaw, stood there a moment, went to get the knife. “Okay, let's do this until I hit it at least once,” he told Cas as he went.

Sam shook his head, watching them all but spoon over knife throwing, and knew if they didn't kiss soon on their own, he'd make them.

**

Dean thought he was over waking to find Sam wandering the halls in the wee hours of the morning; but as it turned out, it was Cas. There was still a sleep debate: as in, Cas should do it, once a day, for a few hours at a stretch. Dean had exacted that promise out of him during the fight to make Cas less self-destructive. Cas had then dutifully complied, and usually went to bed at the same time Dean did, and, as far as Dean could tell, got up about the same time. But something had disturbed Cas' routine. Cas made routine an art form; Sam had pointed out it was probably a way of coping for Cas, to find comfort in something or another than Sam spouted off about in a touchy-feely way that Dean never quite got. When Dean opened the door on him around 3 am, Cas looked startled. He stood there, guilty, caught and watched Dean's face anxiously, looking like he was braced for the inevitable question; so Dean asked it. “Cas, why the hell are you up?” 

Cas didn't look to be forthcoming. He said, “I can't sleep,” as if that somehow would make Dean dismiss it. Dean was tired and he almost wanted to let Cas get away with it; but then he couldn't. 

“Why not?” Dean said tiredly, “what's wrong? And be straight with me and don't make me play twenty stupid questions with you, ok? Can't you tell by now I can look at you and tell when you're lying? You are really, really bad at lying, Cas.”

That made Cas clearly unhappy, it was written all over the top of whatever was bothering him to begin with and Dean groaned and leaned his head against the door frame. “Oh no, Cas, come on, just talk to me man, don't look at me like that, you know I hate that. You want me to make you something?” Offering to cook for either of them at a moments notice was always Dean's fall back comfort strategy, it sometimes worked, but then Sam complained of gaining weight. “I dunno, want some warm milk or something like that? That is supposed to help people sleep?” 

Cas said nothing. Instead he stood there looking at the floor like a child waiting to be scolded. It had a very devastating effect on Dean's need to mother everything in sight. “Okay, come here,” Dean said. He reached out and took Cas' arm and Cas looked surprised but didn't resist and Dean brought Cas into his room and over and sat him there on the side of his bed. Then Dean sat down beside him and rubbed his own face, and then put on what he thought was his best, patient 'I'm listening' face and looked at Cas.

“I'm not sure what's expected of me in this situation,” Cas said, looking around the room slowly, or what he could see of it in the dark. “The fact of the matter is, I can't sleep, and that is all I have to offer.”

“No, no, no,” Dean said, “the correct answer is I can't sleep because of reasons. Then you give me the reason, like ... clowns will get me, that was always one of Sammy's favorite ones; or, I'm having nightmares, which I'm going to go out on a limb as to say that could be yours.”

Cas turned his head away, tightened up his hands into fist and broadcast Dean's correctness so loudly it should have woken Sam up down the hall. “I don't ... I am not ... I have never,” Cas said, and then sucked his lower lip in hard and flared his nostrils and bowed his head.

“You're human now, dude, you're gonna have nightmares,” Dean said. “Hell, with some of the shit we've been through I'm amazed we sleep at all. It's a helluva thing.” Cas started to get up, but Dean grabbed his arm and made him sit again. “Don't start that again,” Dean warned. “Don't start that I'm better than sleep and food and shitting stuff again. Because you're not. Yeah, you use to be, but now, you're not. You're just like the rest of us. Feeling like shit, nightmares, stubbed toes, hang nails, pop music, we all got to suffer it. You learn to deal with it; it seems bad, but you can deal with it. I'm here. Cas, Sam is here. Cas, we've told you over and over, come to us, talk to us. Fuck your humiliation bullshit, it's not humiliating if you don't know how to do it in the first place. Come on, Cas, it's just me, loosen up here, talk to me.”

Cas looked as if he was going to remain tight-lipped, but then he twitched a little, around the edges, and let go a breath. “I don't know why I would do this, is it guilt?” Cas said, giving Dean the look that said 'you know how to human, explain this'.

“Yeah, yeah, probably,” Dean said. “I mean I dream about people that have died and ... things, so, good, that's good, see you're getting the hang of it.”

“I don't want the hang of it,” Cas said, honestly, painfully, then closed his eyes. “I suppose that attitude isn't acceptable,” he continued quietly. “I'm sorry, Dean, but it's the way ... I feel.” And he looked up at Dean, gave him a little shrug, and Dean remembered a little shrug he gave to Satan after lying to his face about throwing molotov cocktails.

“You think I don't get it, Cas, but I do,” Dean returned. “It sucks and until we find some way to fix it, it's going to keep sucking. I wish I could do more, but, such as it is, we're keeping you alive, and fairly sane.” Then Dean gave him a small smile. 

“I am eminently grateful,” Cas said, looking mostly at Dean's chin. “I know perhaps my actions speak otherwise, but there is nothing ...” and he collected himself a moment, “or no one that I know, here or in heaven, that would have given me more. Especially after what I've done. The fact you even worried about me; looked for me.” He looked away again, twisted his hands together. “I think in my own opinion you show more compassion then even those of us that were supposed to watch over you. You and Sam, what I did to Sam,” he stopped then, looked down again, went silent. Dean didn't realize he'd thrown his arm over him until he did, and since he'd done it, he just tugged Cas against his side. After a little bit he leaned his cheek against the side of Cas' bowed head and they just sat there for a while, in silence. Dean even rubbed Cas' arm a little, and Cas made a little hitching sound.

“This human emotion stuff is tough, isn't it,” Dean finally asked, very quietly.

“Yes,” Cas replied, just as quiet, sounding a little wet.

“I don't know if I should be saying it will be okay to you, since you don't want to get acclimated to the condition,” Dean said, then kissed the side of Cas' head without really thinking about it, “but I'll say it anyways. It's gonna be okay.”

Cas leaned into him hard then, and they sat there the rest of the night.

**

The bleeding was sluggish and it wouldn't stop. He kept pressure against it, a wadded up t-shirt similar to the way Sam bandaged his arm that while ago. Dean looked at him, coughed, winced. “Is it bad?” he asked and Cas had no way to tell him. Not like before when he simply laid a hand on Dean and all bleeding stopped, all pain stopped, he just flooded Dean with grace and made him whole again. His stomach clenched and he forced himself to speak. 

“Don't move around, it will be okay, Sam went to get the car,” he just repeated to Dean what Sam told him and felt pointless, helpless and feeble. “You shouldn't try to take on these things yourself,” Cas said, haltingly, “you can't be so reckless when I can't ... you know that, you know that now Dean, you can't.”

Dean patted his arm, trying to comfort him, and Cas' stomach rolled. He had to learn to keep his stupid mouth shut.

“It's okay,” Dean said solely for his reassurance, Cas knew, “you got it.” Then Dean grinned that grin at him, and Cas felt selfish and small and bleak, but he stowed his crap; Dean needed him. Instead he did what Dean did: he used bravado. “And it got you, idiot.” But there was little conviction in his words and Dean half-laughed, half-groaned. Cas moved to lift Dean's head onto his knees, keeping the shirt against his shoulder. Dean looked up at him and kept smiling. Cas tried to smile back but wasn't sure of the results, so he stopped trying.

“Maybe I did it so you'll take care of me,” Dean told him.

“Don't say stupid things,” Cas warned him. “This isn't funny, Dean.”

“I'm hilarious,” Dean reminded him, “I see you trying not to laugh sometimes. I'm adorable, too.”

You're beautiful, Cas thought.

“If I die, take care of Sammy,” Dean said, giving him his best pout.

“You're not going to die, why are you even saying any of this?” Cas said. “Can't you be concerned with yourself for once?”

“Kiss me, it will make me feel better, might even make you feel better,” Dean told him.

Dean Winchester is saved, he heard, in his memories of a time when his head was always filled with sound.

“You're an idiot,” Cas reminded him, then leant down as far as he could with Dean in his lap and Dean pressed up to meet him. They only pulled apart when they heard the Impala, coming closer to take them home.

**

Dean was on bed rest. He was lousy at it, he constantly got up, asked for things, complained about anything he could find to complain about. Sam grabbed a pillow and attempted to smother him; at least that is what it looked like but Cas realized it was a jest just in time. It would have been awkward to have to fight with Sam. Both brothers snorted and glared at each other.

“Quit being a pain in the ass,” Sam told Dean, “it isn't cute, no one here wants to fawn over you.”

“Cas will fawn over me, won't you, Cas?” Dean asked him, having caught sight of him leaning in the doorway.

Cas felt confused, and it showed, because Sam snorted and pulled a face. “Don't listen to him Cas, he's a jerk.”

“I'm injured, wait on me hand and foot ,Sammy.” Dean grabbed his brother's sleeve with his uninjured arm and Sam yanked his sleeve away. Cas just watched them being so easy with each other and teasing, knowing each other so well. Dean tried to include him again.

“Cas, make me a sandwich,” Dean asked him, grinning, and Sam gave up, rolled his eyes and had had enough. He moved to leave the room.

“Don't let him boss you around, Cas,” Sam said as he went, “he'll milk that 'I'm injured' thing forever if you let him.”

“Ham and cheese sandwich, Cas,” Dean said and gave a mock-pout. “And potato chips, not the regular kind, the salt and vinegar kind. Sam hides them in the very top cabinet over the ovens but you can use a stool to get to them.”

It was annoying how Dean told him this as if he'd obey. It was even more annoying he was willing to obey: to go and do this menial task just because Dean wanted him to. Then he remembered, the kitchen was downstairs.

“There are stairs,” he intoned and squinted at Dean. The squint was meant to be intimidating, but Dean never seemed to take this hint.

“Oh my fuck, Cas, yes, there are, are you still resenting the hell out of stairs?” Dean asked.

Yes, he was, not that it was any of Dean's business. Stairs were taxing. He had to lift his foot instead of just shuffle along. He'd already come up them once, helping Sam carry Dean to his room, and now he didn't feel the need to traverse them again; especially not because Dean wanted a sandwich. And Dean probably only wanted to see if he could make Cas make him a sandwich. No, there were stairs, he wasn't interested. If it was his choice he would stay upstairs all the time and they could move the kitchen up there, then the bunker would be perfect. 

“You're going to let me starve because your lazy ass hates stairs,” Dean stated. “You're not starving, don't exaggerate, it's irritating,” Cas told him.

“I took you out to shoot at things like you wanted and I got injured,” Dean said, dragging out the last syllable of the word injured, as if somehow that made his condition worse. 

“I know,” Cas said, “I was there. You didn't have to take me, in fact you made me go, I wanted to stay in bed under the coverlet. I don't remember you being this annoying in the past. What has changed?”

“You kissed me,” Dean sighed. “You kissed me and therefore you're supposed to have more pity on me when I'm injured.” And he did the syllable dragging again and Cas squinted harder.

“Then I won't kiss you anymore, if that's the requirement,” Cas informed him and left the room.

**

Cas had determined that for the duration of Dean's annoying new habits, like kissing, he'd be inaccessible, and he took to locking himself in his room — again. 

“This is an excuse,” Dean yelled through the door, “it's an excuse not to come downstairs and join the world just like the fucking stairs used to be an excuse! Like you try to keep using the fucking stairs as an excuse! Dammit, Cas, come and talk to me. I won't kiss you anymore, fuck, I was reading too much into that, I guess. I mean, I thought you wanted me to kiss you, you used to stare at me like you wanted me to just grab you and kiss the everloving fuck out of you, then fuck it back in you. What am I supposed to know? I thought now that we were on more even footing, maybe we should try that out. I wanted to try that out while you had mojo too, you dick, just so you don't take my acting on it now as some sort of thing about how fucking shallow I am or something; I don't know why people say that shit to me. Are you listening to me?” Dean pounded on the door again for good measure.

The door jerked open and Cas glared at him and said, “I can't have you, please stop presenting yourself in a manner which suggests I could.”

Dean didn't know what the hell to say to that.

“I regret 'stringing you along', and I hope that is the right terminology, I researched it on Sam's iPad,” Cas continued. “I enjoyed the kissing, but it's not permitted. I can't have you, I hope you respect my requests and discontinue any signs of flirtation and affection directed at me in hopes of reciprocation. It is hard not to reciprocate when you give me that sort of attention; because I want it, but I can't have it.” Cas stopped then; his eyes were on Dean's lips.

You're saying you want me to kiss you but I can't because you can't have me? This makes sense how?” Dean questioned finally. “You're looking at my fucking lips,” he said, and he leaned forward. Cas jerked back and slammed the door in his face.

“No way, angel,” Dean pounded on the door again and Cas jerked it open and stepped on his foot hard and when Dean howled and hopped back Cas glared at him some more.

“No only am I not allowed to have you, you are _not_ to call me that ever again,” and Cas snorted loudly but looked less sure of himself. “Do you not understand that I am responsible for the destruction of my kind? The only thing I am allowing is that I let myself live in this pitiful state until some redemption is extracted from me. I would do penance but it's impossible to do it properly in this pitiful shell, I will kill it and therefore rob myself of any way to redeem myself. So I have to do what you have taught me to do to live. But, I can't enjoy this thing I have been reduced to, I can't let this body want you; and it does and I don't know how to stop it. So please, Dean, don't tempt me. Don't come to me and kiss me and say ... the things you were saying outside this door. It's just better if we maintain a clinical detachment. It was much easier before all this ... emotion was inside me.” And Cas looked at Dean like Dean should just roll over and surrender to this.

“What a bunch of bullshit,” Dean told him. “Man, have you got your wires crossed. Are you saying you didn't want any of this when you were an angel?” Dean made a vague gesture at himself. “And besides that, I call bullshit on you being the 'destroyer of your kind',” and Dean did air quotes, as Cas had done to him in the past. “The last time I looked, your kind did a pretty good job of destroying themselves. All the fucking backstabbing and corruption that was going on, hell, Cas, you were the only good thing to come out of heaven in my experience. Maybe a few others, but the point of the matter is I don't care what level of involvement you had, this is Not. On. You.” And he moved back close enough to poke Cas in the shoulder with each word for emphasis.

“I will not allow you to give me excuses, isn't that what you were preaching out here not five minutes ago? I will not allow you to absolve me and defend me like you always do, I won't allow that this time, Dean,” Cas said, clenching his fists at his sides. “You make me think I am invincible and this is what it has brought me,” and now his face flushed and his eyes got bright and Cas was shaking and Dean felt this had been coming and he needed to get it out. Other than the one night of screaming, which had been horrible, and after which they'd sat on the floor under a blanket, Cas hadn't really said much about the situation, or shown much emotion. Dean figured there was a time and place, maybe it should be here and now.

“I don't remember where you get to tell me what I think,” Dean told him, narrowing his eyes. “I do remember the part where you can be a fucking petulant child about every fucking thing in existence, and that includes playing god. This time you didn't make the play, you were a victim just like all the other victims. Get it through your head: Metatron saw that and used you for this end. You know, I even feel this is kind of my fault for just shoving you out there after you took the fucking tablet and did your little run away shit. Fuck, Cas, just fuck it all. I'm tired of it always being your fault and I'm tired of these dicks always finding a way to get to you. You're human now, I'm human now, it's time for you to trust me. And that's implicitly, I've fucking earned it.”

“This is what I'm talking about,” Cas half-shouted. “I was not put here for your kindly intervention; I am not here to make you feel better about yourself because you are finding a way for me to be free of my sins! They are _my sins_ , you don't get to take ownership just as I don't get to tell you how to feel about them! I don't need you to shoulder this for me, if maybe you'd let me be something other than what you perceive, _an angel_ , I would have come to a messy conclusion on this planet long ago and spared everyone some grief!”

“Not my grief,” Dean screamed back then and it was a stand-off, and they stared at each other and Cas retreated into the room and slammed the door. Dean just stood there, breathing and shaking and feeling shit he couldn't describe. He kicked the door, slammed both fists into it. _“Fuck you, angel angel angel,”_ he screamed letting it bounce off the walls of the hallway, knowing Sam has heard everything. He shoved away then, strode down the hall, down the stairs, grabbed the paper off the table and back up the stairs, then he thew himself into a seated position there in front of the door, opened the paper and began to read the sports section out loud.

**

At least food left outside the door was eaten. Sam wasn't sure when any other necessities were taken care of: presumably in the wee hours of the morning after careful monitoring of the situation outside the door. This couldn't go on, mostly for the good of his own sanity. It'd been nearly a week. He knocked on Cas' door.

“Cas, it's not Dean,” he announced himself. “Will you talk to me face to face? Dean went out to get things. Please, Cas? I'm forgetting what you look like.”

“You are Dean's advocate, intentional or not,” Cas said tiredly from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, okay, I get that, but you know what? I'm worried about you, too. Cas, you can't keep on with this, you can't just shut yourself up in that room until what? What is going to happen if you just stay in there? It makes no sense. Fine, you told Dean to fuck off, he'll respect that eventually but not if you keep hiding in that room and never making it real to him. He can't see you so he can't see you mean it.” Sam sighed and leaned on the wall beside the door. Then the door opened, slowly, and Cas looked out at him. It wasn't a look that said he meant it, and his eyes searched Sam's face as if expecting answers and then dropping when he found none.

“You should tell me to leave,” Cas said. “I shouldn't have to be told, I should just leave. Don't start your endless protests,” Cas looked tired now, and he just leaned his whole body into the door. “I have no resolution that will satisfy Dean. He is determined to wear me down. He is a hateful and loving tyrant and I just... can't steel myself against him like I could in the past. I am in every sense his prisoner, voluntary or not and even if I leave, it won't change. Hester was right: the moment I laid hand on him in hell, I was lost.”

“It shouldn't be a bad thing,” Sam said, throat thick, “for either of you. Cas, instead of looking at this as your punishment, why can't you look for a way out? Look for something you can do instead of just tracking back over what you can't do over and over. That isn't a road to redemption, it's a way to punish yourself that no one wants or cares about. If this is all about you, then how can you ever make it right? Keeping yourself locked up, either here or elsewhere, that solves nothing. It just makes you someone to pity.”

Cas made an inarticulate noise in his throat and he looked like his knees might give out. And he just looked at Sam as if somehow Sam could end it all, or end him and it didn't look like he cared which option Sam took. They both heard the door open then, both looked toward the sound of footsteps downstairs.

“Sam?” Dean called.

“It's your choice, Cas, it's free will and I'm sorry,” Sam said. “Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it sucks, but in the end, whatever choice you make? It's yours and you can live with it. Ever since you came to us, Cas, ever since you rebelled, you still haven't grasped it. You have still looked for orders from somewhere and you look at everyone except yourself. You only thought you knew free will, but you still have no clue.”

They could hear Dean at the foot of the stairs now. “Sammy, you up there?” he called.

“Stay, go, be with him, don't be with him, that Cas, that is what is actually on you.” Sam turned then, called out to his brother, “Yeah, I'm up here ... talking to Cas.” 

A simple betrayal, Cas crumbled with it, looked at him like he should be ashamed. The sound of Dean half-running up the stairs startled them both and then he was on the landing and he immediately schooled himself, dared either of them to comment on the rush. Cas took a step back, shut his door and Sam scrambled out of Dean's way, Dean's fury, Dean's fists and feet against the door. And he stood there panting and Sam knew better than to say anything, he just went away. 

They were going to hurt each other, they were hurting each other, they were never going to be with anyone else again, and that ... that hurt Sam.

**

It was 2:14 am, and he couldn't sleep. He took his pillow, his blanket, he propped the pillow against a door, he sat and leaned back against it, he put his blanket over his legs and he pressed his ear to the door. He could hear him, there on the other side. His movement roused him, he could hear him shift. 

“That can't be restful,” Cas said, pulling the blanket between his hands. “You'll have a sore neck.”

“What do you care?” Dean said from the other side of the door.

“Enough to mention it,” Cas said, pulling the blanket through his hands, around and around and around he'd go; like he did every night, when he knew Dean was in the hall. Usually he just stayed on the bed, and usually Dean eventually went away and they didn't exchange words. But he betrayed this silence today, he'd spoken to Sam and it made Cas regress to the first few days he'd barricaded himself in his room. They'd both grown friendly with it over the week, but now it was raw again. Now, there was talk.

“I'll leave,” Cas said. 

“I'll break your fucking legs,” Dean threatened. He didn't mean it. “No,” he amended, “I'll follow you.”

Cas was more comfortable with this, despite the threats. Dean wasn't insisting he come out. There could still be this barrier between what Cas was and what Cas wanted. But it was starting to blur. He should have never spoken to Sam. Sam was poison to him because Sam's words carried weight and they'd added to Cas' own heavy words and he was getting tired of holding them all; it was just a matter of what he decided he must let go.

“What do you want from me?” Cas asked, wondering what he'll do with the answer he'd get.

“Everything and nothing,” Dean said, “because I don't know what to want from you.” Cas leaned there and knew he is lost, all over again. If Dean's answer had been some glib assurance, some bravado; it would have been easy to turn away. But Dean wasn't playing fair, he didn't know how; Dean was being honest. Cas reached above him, turned the knob and heard the lock pop. He heard Dean move on the other side of the door and he slid himself on the floor because his door opened inward. After a moment, slowly, almost cautiously, it did swing inward, and Dean was there, on his knees in the hallway.

He was devastating to look at.

Dean didn't move into the room, he just sat there on his knees, looking at Cas through the doorway. Cas was pulling his blanket through his hand again, around and around the edges, working it slowly in a circle. He liked the feel of this blanket, he liked the snags and little fuzzy pills that clung to it's surface. He liked it's waffle pattern, he even liked its color. He wasn't sure these details mattered, but he liked them. When Dean moved, he crawled forward, he came up to where Cas was still sitting on the floor and he sat on his ass, too. Cas stopped turning the blanket now, looks at his hands holding it instead.

“What changed your mind?” Dean asked. “It wasn't me.”

“I did,” Cas said. “I changed my mind. It's allowed.”

“So what are we doing to do about it?” Dean questioned, picking at the edge of Cas' favorite blanket.

“We are not going to do anything about it. I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to go and find out what I am supposed to be doing about it. You are going to drive me and bury me if I die doing it,” Cas told him.

Dean made one of his faces, his nose twitchy, lip curling, eye rolling faces.

“So what's in this for me?” he said, snorting, finally looking at Cas directly.

“I need you,” Cas said, then went quiet as Dean tugged on the blanket. Cas didn't relinquish his hold on it, so he was pulled inevitably forward, and when Dean put his arms around him, he found that he was found.

**

They were still hunters; and so they hunted. On most hunts, Cas chose to go, on some hunts he didn't. He weighed the options with great care (causing Dean to huff and gripe they had to play a billion questions before leaving), he had his own scale of severity. One day, before Sam and Dean left and left him there alone with his coffee and sandwiches and TV and papers to read; Sam asked him if he might like a job of cataloging one of the many rooms of the bunker. It was underutilized, this vast wealth of knowledge, maybe Cas could make more sense of it than he could. Maybe what Cas was looking for was already here somewhere. Dean didn't want to take the time to research; he was as he ever was: hands on. So Cas agreed and the brothers left and he picked a room and took the first box from the shelf.

**

Dean found him because he was Dean's first priority when he wasn't part of the group. He was surrounded by small stacks, organized in a way he knew, and paper and pencils and sketches and volumes written in explanation and he was holding in his hands links from a rusty chain and when Dean came in and Cas saw him he lit up and he smiled and he said, “I was on this detail!”

“Have you eaten?” Because Dean saw no plates or glasses and he and Sam had been gone almost three days and Cas was forgetful and it looked like he'd been busy.

“I don't know,” Cas said, and Dean knew this was true because Cas could get so mono-focused it could be frightening, “but look ... King Herod was holding Peter in prison. I was on the detail, as back-up. I watched the whole thing.” Cas ran his fingers over the links and looked up again at Dean, very pleased with himself.

“That's great, Cas, let's get a sandwich,” Dean said, worriedly.

“There was a lot of speculation about theological significance afterward,” Cas continued on, “this is written in the Book of Acts. The theme of that particular book was that Christ's servants follow in His footsteps. It is argued that the events of the chapter recapitulate the resurrection of Jesus. There was also Rhoda's message to Luke, but most of the disciples refused to believe the news of the resurrection brought by a group of women,” Cas sighed then, looked a little sad. 

“Sandwich,” Dean said again, cheerfully.

“I appreciate your concern,” Cas snapped, “I am trying to impart some history here,” he shook the chain. “I was here, I was part of this, it's written in your bible. It's part of who I am and I don't want to lose it, please listen to me, Dean! I am not ... a child you have to care for! I have weight now, I have no wings, I have to do something.” He let the chain slip to the floor.

Dean was so not cut out for this. Cas was sometimes so beyond his ability to comfort because he felt he lacked the words and the knowledge needed to make Cas feel better. Sam was better at it, but Sam insisted that the between the two of them, the one that would mend Cas was Dean, himself. But Dean didn't see it. But Dean sank to his knees there, in front of him, picked the chain up.

“Why uh, why did Herod have him in prison?” Dean asked.

“It doesn't matter,” Cas said, snatched the chain from his hands, put it in a box next to him.

“Wait, five seconds ago it mattered, it was in the bible, come on, Cas,” Dean said. “I'm trying here, ok? I do want to listen,” but he sat there on his knees not knowing what more to say. See, Sam? You'd be so much better at this.

Cas looked at him, drew a breath. “Now about the time Herod the King stretched forth his hand to vex certain of the church. And he killed James, the brother of John, with the sword. And because he saw it pleased the Jews, he proceeded further to take Peter also. Then were the days of unleavened bread,” then Cas went quiet and looked at him.

“Uh, that was the bible? You got that memorized, huh?” Dean said. “Reading your own press,” and he gave Cas a little smile that faltered when Cas didn't smile back.

“He saw the disciples as a political attack on the church, not a religious one. There were two factions ... this is really not necessary to go into with you. It's not something you'll take away from the conversation,” Cas said flatly.

“I'm sorry I'm not book-smart,” Dean said and got up. “Don't starve to death, okay?”

Cas looked up at him, watched him a moment, dropped his eyes. Dean felt helpless to connect with him, it was like the closer they were the more they found out what they didn't know before; they were not that much alike.

“What's happening?” Cas asked, still not looking at him. “Where are you going, Dean?”

“What do you mean, I'm just going to take a shower,” Dean responded, stomach tightening because in this moment, he knew Cas felt it, too. So if they connected but they couldn't connect, what then? What happened now? How could he put his angel back together again?

Cas made a helpless gesture, nodded his head. “You must be tired, I take it the hunt was good?”

“If you mean did Sammy and I kill things? Yeah, it was good,” Dean said, lingering now. “I am tired,” he confessed. “Worried about you not eating, too, okay?” he challenged.

Cas just bowed his head. “I'm sorry,” he offered. That was not what Dean was looking for, it was not an apology he wants from Cas, it was ... it was participation in life and Cas was trying, Dean knew he was. He was stumbling around looking for a way to fit in and it was heartbreaking and Dean sometimes just wanted to somehow pry it out of himself and put it in Cas. Human grace: if Dean had it to give up, he would, he'd pry his out and put it in Cas and let Cas live. He didn't know why it was so hard and he did; he didn't know what to do, how do you make an angel human? How could it possibly compare? He didn't know why Cas needed him. But Cas got up then, came over, rubbed Dean's sleeve and walked past him out of the room. 

Dean turned to follow him, watched Cas go into the kitchen, and, after a moment, Dean went upstairs to shower.

**

Sam leaned his head into the doorway of Dean's room, he said goodnight and Dean waved at him. Later, Cas came into his room, crawled into bed with him and lay with his head on Dean's stomach. It was just something he did. And Dean flopped his hand onto Cas' head, tugged his hair, rubbed his scalp: it was just something Dean did.

“And it came to pass, after he had buried him, that he spake to his sons, saying, When I am dead, then bury me in the sepulchre wherein the man of God is buried; lay my bones beside his bones,” Cas whispered against his stomach.

“Why are you so morbid?” Dean asked, pulling at the short, dark strands between his fingers.

“Because you are so mortal,” Cas answered. “If it's graphic, you understand it better. Also, you're book-smart and you're beautiful.”

“Shut up,” Dean whispered. “First book of Kings, chapter 13, verse 31. How about verse 22? So you drank the water and ate the bread in the place the lord told you not to? I didn't know our kitchen was so important.”

“See, book-smart,” Cas said, pressing his nose against Dean's stomach. 

“I have to keep up with you,” Dean replied, eyes closing, stomach tightening. 

“There isn't much to keep up with,” Cas said, “I don't know what I'm to do.”

“Holy tax accountant,” Dean answered him, “you got the look down.”

“Salesman of advertising on AM radio,” Cas said with a bitter half-laugh, his fingers drew circles against Dean's side. “When I do get back to heaven, Jimmy is going to kick my ass,” he sighed.

“There's a cable show about that, advertising, it's called Mad Men, sort of works for us,” Dean said, eyes closed, head rubbing in full swing now.

“You try to line your life up by TV shows,” Cas said testily, “I don't understand why, you're so much more interesting.”

“It helps me keep track,” Dean told him, finding Cas' earlobe and rubbing that, too. “If I'm lucky I will see how this all works out in the end. It's like a guidebook.”

“Then where do I fit in? Do you have me in this line up of life on television?” Cas asked. “I'm surprised I'm honestly curious.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment, then he sputtered a laugh and tugged on Cas' hair. “Roma Downey,” he said grinning at the ceiling.

“Who is that?” Cas asked because Dean knew that Cas was still a TV infant. In fact, Cas wanted to watch the same five episodes of Star Trek over and over lately and made mumbled whining protests when asked to move on.

“Touched by an angel,” Dean's voice was full of wicked intent. “Only wow, I need to get you off that Roma Downey image, she is pretty much the girl next door.”

“That reference suggests wholesomeness and good values,” Cas said, “why am I not a good choice for that? No, maybe you shouldn't answer that,” Cas said after another moment.

“It's not that,” Dean said, “what I need to do is line you up with an image I'd fuck through a mattress. That's what I need to do.”

“You don't need an image for that,” Cas said, “just do it.”

“No,” Dean said, “you're not human enough yet: you think you are, but you're not.”

“Why do you get to be the judge of that?” Cas asked, irritation plain. “I can watch all the porn you require. I don't understand this hesitation, I'm not innocent of the act, Dean.”

“Just the fact you had to tell me that means you are,” Dean sighed. “Don't worry, when it comes it will come like a freight train and I will pin you to something and I will make you see god, trust me.”

“I have a feeling this is all bravado,” Cas grumbled, a finger now investigating Dean's belly button through his shirt, “are you nervous?”

“No, I'm going to do this right,” and then Dean shoved Cas' head off his stomach. “Go sulk in your room.”

And Cas left to do just that.

**

“And I commanded you at the time all the things which ye should do,” Cas yelled across the alley. Dean flipped him a bird from the other side.

“Deuteronomy, chapter 1, verse 18, stick it up your ass, Cas!” Dean yelled back. The new game was 'is this bible quote relevant?' and they both played it very religiously. Sam rolled his eyes at himself.

“Then why didn't you do what I told you to do?” Cas yelled back.

“Maybe because you're full of shit,” Dean bellowed.

“Maybe,” Sam interjected, “you could stop all this foreplay until we find the Banshee again? If you two lovebirds hadn't been squabbling she wouldn't have gotten the drop on us and our ears wouldn't have been ringing for the last thirty minutes.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean and Cas said in unison, both glaring at him now. 

“Cas was supposed to be covering the back of the building,” Dean said. “So, have a chat with Cas about how we lost her.”

“Neither shalt thou bear false witness against thy neighbor,” Cas huffed.

“We're still in Deuteronomy, we've moved to chapter 5, verse 18 yet again,” Dean informed Sam.

“I just want you to know what fucked-up foreplay this actually is,” Sam said.

“It's not foreplay, we're not fucking,” Dean told his brother.

“I don't know why not,” Cas added, “I told him I would be a willing participant in any carnal event he wished to have, preferably with just me, but I'm not opposed to other suggestions.”

“Stop,” Sam yelled himself. “I don't want details, the both of you do this shit on purpose, I swear!”

“What you're not proud of me for not jumping the angel until I felt he was really ready?” Dean said. “I thought that would get fucking brownie points from you at least!”

“The angel is ready,” Cas informed them from across the alley. “It's the hunter cock-blocking himself.”

“Who taught you that word?” Dean yelled across the alley.

“We have to have this discussion now? We have to have this discussion at all?” Sam stressed. “I'm not here to be your referee or your therapist or whatever you two are looking for, can we leave me out of it?”

“And all the people shall hear and fear and do no more presumptuously,” Cas snarled at them.

“Get out of Deuteronomy, you're obsessed with it.” Dean shook his fist, “Chapter 17 ... uh, verse—” He stopped to think.

“Verse?” Cas said loudly, “The countdown has started, you only get two tries!” Sam threw his hands up, got up and walked away. Dean looked at Cas, gestured after Sam. “Look what you did,” he told him.

“No stalling or distraction tactics,” Cas said, unmoved. “Verse?”

“11,” Dean said. 

“Wrong,” Cas smiled.

Then Dean got up and went after Sam, so Cas got up and went after Dean.

“I don't know why were are hunting a banshee in the first place,” Cas said, at the rear of the little group. “They're harmless as far as spirits go; they only wail to warn of an approaching death, they don't cause them.”

“Technically we can't kill her, she's already dead,” Sam said, “but we can send her over. This one has supposedly been around for generations with the O'Grady family. It was actually a request of the ancestor who moved here and brought the banshee with him. He thinks it's the spirit of one of his long ago relatives that died in childbirth.”

“13!” Dean suddenly said, and looked triumphant.

“That took way too long, penalty,” Cas said.

Sam swore Dean and Cas looked like they were about to have a slap fight. 

“I'm glad you guys are taking this so seriously,” Sam told them.

“I was also upright before him, and kept myself from mine iniquity,” Dean said, and gave Sam a pout.

“That's book of Samuel,” Cas told Sam, “Chapter 22, verse 24. Dean remembers all the iniquity verses. I think he's using the book of Samuel to poke at you,” and Cas gave Sam that head dip and eyebrow lift he did when he though he was pointing out something obvious that had been missed.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a strange loud wailing came out instead, then they realized that it wasn't Sam wailing and their quarry was nearby.

The trap of choice was Enochian. Cas still knew spells and invocations, conjurations and exorcisms. The seats of power might be vacant, but the magics still worked. It was handy when a body to burn wasn't forthcoming. Done and done, it was a little late for a drive back home, so they decided on a small motel with a diner attached to spend the night. They checked into the room and headed over to the diner, comfortable in silence for the moment. Cas slid into the booth beside Dean and Sam slid all the way into the corner of his bench seat and slung his leg up on it. They were tired and they felt accomplished. Dean gave Cas the laminated menu from behind the napkin holder, but he needn't have bothered. Cas just copied his order and they all still felt they had nothing to say.

Sam was the one to finally break the spell.

“Why do you guys play that bible verse game all the time now?” he asked, smiling up at the waitress when she brought them coffee and glasses of water. “You got to have a good memory to keep up with Cas,” Sam told Dean.

“I'm book-smart,” Dean said with a little smile and Cas looked pleased and turned to look around the diner. A woman came in, the little door bell chimed and she came over to the counter and stood near the register, waiting to be noticed. She looked over at the three of them sitting and waiting on their food and she tilted her head and hugged a sweater she was wearing around her tighter. The waitress came to take her order and she mumbled it, paid in wadded bills and stood there to wait. Dean finally looked at her. She was wearing things that didn't fit her well, like a pair of old tennis shoes, and while he checked her out, she kept looking over at them, looking at Cas specifically. 

“She's checking you out,” Dean said lowly, with a little mirth in his voice, just to see how Cas would react. Cas looked up at the woman then, squinted at her. She stared at him and he gave a little jerk, sat up right and then she moved and she was on him. It happened so fast that neither Dean nor Sam had much time to react. The woman shoved the table back into Sam and jumped to straddle Cas' lap. Her knee connected solidly with Dean's side. She had grabbed a fork off the table as she came and she drew it back. Cas just sat there, made no move to defend himself, and she brought her arm forward. Her intent seemed to be to bury the fork in his throat. Dean was moving now. 

_“Get off him,”_ he roared and threw his arm across Cas. 

Dean gave a half-shout when the tines of the fork sank into his arm. Sam kicked the table away, grabbed the woman by the shoulders and threw her off of Cas' lap and onto the floor. 

“What the hell, lady?” he asked her, looking down. 

Dean was getting to his feet now and Cas was reacting, reaching for Dean's bleeding arm. Dean pulled the fork out of it, let it clatter to the floor and grabbed a napkin from the table. By now the rest of the diner was in motion. 

“I'm calling the police,” the waitress said, grabbing at a phone behind the counter, and Sam swore and Dean grabbed Cas' arm to pull him to the door. The three of them went outside. The woman ran to another door at the other end of the diner, she shoved out of it, and stood there, looking at them in the parking lot. She pointed at Cas.

“This is your fault, this miserable turn, did not enough of us lay dead at your feet before? You have to run us all from our home! I call thee evil spirit, cruel spirit, merciless spirit; I call thee, who sittest in the cemetery and takest away healing. Go and place a knot in his head, in his eyes, in his mouth, in his tongue, in his windpipe, and put poisonous water in his belly,” she screamed.

“Shut up,” Dean screamed back, yanked Cas away, and Sam moved behind them as if to act as another shield. She screamed after them, now in Enochian, and Cas hunched himself up and Dean just ran him down to the motel room and in, grabbing at their gear. Sam came too. They took everything to the impala, threw it in, pushed Cas in, then they drove off and left the woman screaming after them in the parking lot.

“That incantation,” Sam started, but he was interrupted.

“Meaningless without the proper ritual,” Cas said quietly. “Dean, how is your arm?” 

“It can wait until we are out of town a bit,” Dean said, glancing in the rearview. “Let's just put some miles between here and us.”

**

Eventually they pulled over to stop in a truck rest area on the highway. Dean and Sam sat under a buzzing fluorescent bulb at a concrete picnic table so Sam could check his wound. Cas sat in the car, wishing there were knots in his head and eyes and mouth. When Sam and Dean came back to the car, Dean slid into the back seat beside Cas and Sam got in the front. 

“We'll just sleep here tonight,” Dean told him. Cas just nodded, then laid his hand on Dean's arm near the bandage Sam had dressed it with.

“For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield,” Dean whispered to him.

“I love Psalms,” Cas said brokenly, eyes wet. “I don't think it means that the righteous man is supposed to be my shield.”

“I know,” Dean said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But that's what I want it to mean.” Then Dean put his arm around Cas and settled back into the corner of seat and door, pulling Cas to lie against his side. His hand found its way into Cas' hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Salternates


	3. We were weaned from our timidy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, he began to grow into himself.

“You got a fast car, and I want a ticket to go anywhere, maybe we can make a deal, maybe together we can get somewhere.”

Cas was singing under his breath. Dean glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Cas returned the look after a moment, went quiet. Dean liked Cas' singing voice, but he didn't always like Cas' choice of song. But he liked this song all right. Cas had one of Sam's old iPods and had been steadily building his own collection of songs. 

“Do you have a request?” Cas asked behind him. “I like this Norah Jones song, do you want to hear some of it?”

“No, no, that's okay, not my thing, Norah Jones,” Dean said with a tight smile. “How about Thin Lizzy?”

Cas snorted, shook his head, returned his attention to his iPod. “Your music knowledge wallows sadly in the 70s,” Cas informed him. “You need to give more modern artists a chance, there are a lot of talented singers much more recent.”

“Oh my fuck, you sound like Sam, Sam has done this to you, hasn't he?” Dean reached over and swatted his sleeping brother in the arm. “Wake up, Sammy, what kind of crap you been feeding my angel?”

Sam startled, jumped, looked at Dean blearily.

“Sam has not been feeding me anything,” Cas said, irritated, from the back seat. “Leave him alone, he's sleeping. How about Pink? She has some interesting songs.”

“Who are you? How are we even sleeping together?” Dean said, looking wide-eyed at Cas now in the rearview mirror.

“We aren't sleeping together. That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works,” Cas said, shaking the iPod at Dean's reflection in the rearview.

“Psalms isn't helping your taste in music.” Dean snorted, looked at Sam, who'd settled back down to go back to sleep. “This is Sam's doing, I'm going to get the truth out of him.”

“Having a difference in musical tastes is not a sin,” Cas said flatly. “AC/DC had that one very recognizable song, then all their other songs sound like it.”

“I will pull this car over,” Dean said, low and dangerous.

“All my bad opinions of your music are my own, so leave Sam out of it,” Cas informed him again, loftily. 

Actually Dean thought it was pretty great that Cas had opinions. Cas was even allowed to be obnoxious about them after spending millennia being told what to do. It was good, after their last little go around with a banshee and another angel, that Cas could be distracted with an old iPod and a pair of headphones. 

**

Dean could usually find Cas with his laptop now, if they both disappeared. Cas downloaded music of all descriptions; was willing to listen to anything once. His tastes became very eclectic, not choosing one genre or generation over another, but proclaiming to love all equally — except AC/DC. Sam was baffled as to why Dean blamed him for that. Cas would look up lyrics, would write them down in a notebook, would hum them to himself as he continued cataloging the archives between hunts.

“You really screwed up your vessel thing,” Dean told him, “You really needed to get a teenage girl.”

Cas just tilted his head and squinted at Dean, and Dean grinned and came in and flopped into one of the chairs around the library table that Sam and Cas had moved into the archive room Cas was working on. Cas smiled at him when he sat down, sort of scooted his chair to be a little closer to him. Dean kind of liked walking into a room and seeing Cas light up, he kind of liked it a lot.

“Whatcha cataloging today, Einstein?” he asked, smiling, putting his feet up on the table and onto some of Cas' papers, folding his hands in his lap.

“As you know, I'm currently cataloging all the display exhibits from infernal events G through I,” Cas said. “It seems there are a lot of G cases, there must be a prevalence of G surnames that I was previously unaware of.”

“That's a shame,” Dean said. “I thought you might like to go for a drive and listen to some real music.”

“A drive where?” Cas said. “I'm very busy. Sam has made it clear that if I get this entire room done by the end of the week, I can start on a new room Monday.” Cas said that like it was some reward being dangled.

“Uh, we could go get some beer,” Dean said.

“What do you consider real music?” Cas asked, elbow on table, chin in palm. “I'm curious because as far as I can tell it's all real music.”

“Allman Brothers, Seger, Black Sabbath, and you really need to change your attitude about AC/DC, man, what did they ever do to you?” Dean said.

“Perpetrated a lie upon the general population by pretending to write more songs than just Back in Black,” Cas replied.

Dean just grinned. Cas had a joke. Cas had a running gag. Cas was teasing him, _Cas_ was _teasing_ him; and it was making Cas, for the lack of better words, all manner of hot.

“If I go on your drive, can I pick music, too?” Cas asked. 

“Nope,” Dean said. “Driver picks the music, number one rule of baby.”

“Then there really isn't any incentive to go on a drive with you,” Cas said. “Unless you're relying on your bad boy charm to sway me. I think that's what you're relying on; you think you're irresistible.”

“So is it working?” Dean asked. “Or do I need to switch tactics? You went from being irritated because I wouldn't jump you to playing hard to get. You're really picking up the whole range of human emotions pretty quickly. I have to say, I, for one, am impressed.”

“So flattery is tactic number two,” Cas said with a pleasant smile. He kept watching Dean, but it wasn't like the way he used to stare at him. He used to stare at him hard, like he was trying to figure him out; now he watched Dean, as if he were enjoying him. “And you should be impressed, I'm brilliant.”

They were flirting. The angel was flirting with him. He could live with this. He could live his whole life with this.

“So now you're going to make me work for it. Smooth, Cas, real smooth,” Dean said, acknowledging this new game. This wonderful game.

“You're so good under pressure,” Cas told him. “Why should I not get to enjoy that? Besides, having is worth more if you work for it, correct?”

“Are you going on a drive with me, or not?” Dean asked again.

“No, try harder,” Cas said. “Shoo, I'm busy.”

So Dean went off to figure out how to try harder.

**

“It doesn't have to be like this,” Sam said, looking up. “Please, just talk to us, come down, no one is going to hurt you.”

**

Finding angels practicing witchcraft was frightening. Knowing they were doing it with ancient Enochian power words was more frightening. Cas begging Sam and Dean not to kill the witch was the worst.

In his flight to get away from the hunters, the angel or witch, or whatever it was now, had fled to the top of a four story building, wedged himself out on a ledge, threatened to jump.

Cas had pleaded for him. “Just let me talk to him, please, just let me talk to him, he may not even know what he was doing is taboo; he didn't kill anyone ...”

“No, Cas, he just maimed someone,” Dean snapped. “He has got to know that's bad.” Sam watched Cas crumple before Dean. Sam intervened. 

“Cas might be right,” Sam said. “At least let Cas talk to him first.” Dean swore, looked at them both and turned his back and walked off>It was as much acceptance as he would give because he couldn't agree with them verbally.

Sam took Cas over to where they could see the man, and he spoke first, trying to coax him down It predictably had no effect. So Cas started speaking in Enochian.

**

[Brother, why are you doing this? What has happened to you that you would resort to ancient magics?] Cas said, leaning out the window as far as Sam would let him. 

[I am no one's brother now, you should not call us so, we are all in this sin together,] the other angel told him.

[That's not true! Tell me your name, your name from heaven. Tell me what is wrong and maybe I can help,] Cas said.

[There is no point. It makes no difference, it made no difference down here on this world of creatures of mud. Why did our Father do this? Why did he let this happen to us? So that we fall here, so that we become this and we are preyed upon like animals.] The angel was shaking, tears running down his face and he wouldn't look at Cas.

[Did someone hurt you?] Cas asked. [Please, brother, let me help. These humans with me, they will help if I can explain to them what happened.] Cas begged.

[I am an angel of the lord and I am above their justice and I deserve some respect. You cannot make that happen, no one can make that happen, we are here to be crushed under the thumb of our Father's favorite creations. We lost favor with him and this is our punishment.] The angel looked at Cas now. [If you suffer these fools, if you make friends of them and let them sway you, then you are less than what you were and you have given away your very dignity. I pity you, I pity you, _brother_.] The angel looked directly at Cas now, and then he took a step and he was gone. Cas might have followed, had Sam not yanked him back through the window.

**

Dean kept hovering. He kept coming to look in at Cas as Cas sat in one of the archives. Cas didn't acknowledge him; Cas wanted to be left alone. But every hour, almost on the hour, Dean would come by and look in; it was very irritating.

On Dean's fourth round, Cas called out to him. “I'm fine, will you please stop?” and then Cas looked at him, all hard lines and sharp eyes. Dean took that as an invitation to come into the room and Cas exhaled loudly, clearly unhappy with that circumstance and he dropped his eyes to his lap. “What do you want, Dean?” he demanded, curbing his anger as much as he could.

“I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all,” Dean said, spread his hands. “Kill me now for disturbing you.”

“Your concern is not necessary —” Cas began.

“Yes, it is,” Dean cut him off loudly, then covered his own mouth, took a deep breath. “Yes. It. Is. Look, Cas, ever since that hunt you've been holed up in here, and okay, usually that's normal for you. But you're not doing anything, you're just sitting here. You're just sitting here staring at nothing. How can I not worry about that?”

“Dean ...” Cas tried again, exasperated and yet it ached, this affection Dean had for him.

“You haven't even told us what he said,” Dean interrupted again. “Cas, I know that trying to save him was important to you, and you tried, Sam says you tried hard, but it just wasn't meant to be.”

“Sam was there for me,” Cas said. If Dean would not leave him alone when simply asked, then Cas would try to drive him away with other means.

“I was there. Was I on board with trying to talk him down? No,” Dean said honestly, “but I didn't try to stop you, did I?”

“You didn't try to help, either,” Cas said quietly. He rubbed the end of his shirt between his fingers. “You would have just killed him if it wasn't for Sam; not for me. You wouldn't have done it for me.”

“You have a blind spot for the other angels,” Dean said uncomfortably. “It's like you think they should all just get a free pass.”

“Maybe I do,” Cas said defiantly. “What if I do? You have a blind spot for me, Dean, what if I want to have a blind spot of my own.”

“You're different,” Dean said, looking away.

“How? How am I different,” Cas demanded. “You, better than anyone, better than my siblings, maybe even better than my Father,” and his voice dropped to a whisper, “you know me. You know all that I have done and all the blood I can still see on my hands, so tell me how in creation I am different.”

Cas saw Dean clench his fists, saw Dean look around the room, anywhere but at Cas himself. Saw Dean trying so hard to come up with a good, logical answer that would validate everything he believed. Dean trying so hard to wash Cas clean.

“You are different because I say so,” Dean finally said, turning to pin him with a stare. “You are different because at least you tried. Because you truly and honestly gave a damn about something other than yourself. Because you saw the big picture and you tried to help. You tried because you wanted to help. That is why God made you in the first place. He made someone who might not succeed but they would try, to show the rest of us how it's done. He made you to show how to give a damn. That is your role, angel, because there isn't another angel like you. We know that for a fact. You're different because I say so and because your Father made you that way.”

Castiel loved Dean Winchester. He had probably loved him from the moment he laid eyes on him in hell. Dean had shone so brightly in that dark and horrible place. Castiel often admonished himself for thinking he loved Dean Winchester. Surely it was just the ideal of the righteous man he loved; just the pure and noble thought of a soul of such import in this little human man? But no, the soul was the energy to drive the spirit, and the spirit permeated the flesh and brought life and thought and the thought made the man who he was. Dean Winchester made himself into this righteous man, and Castiel loved him. It was just the truth. Dean was standing there, just looking at him now.

“You make a very convincing argument,” Cas said, still looking at his lap. “And you know what you mean to me; but I'm still going to ask you to leave me alone.” Then he looked up at Dean and saw the pain in Dean's eyes at his request and he almost recanted. But instead, Dean turned and left the room, proving, without a doubt, that he loved Castiel back.

**

Cas kissed him. He came over to where Dean was sitting with his beer and the TV on and he leaned over, blocking Dean's view of the TV, and he kissed him. Dean blinked at him in surprise because Dean rather thought he was on Cas' shit list this week. But then Cas stroked his face with those long fingers, worried Dean's lips with his fingertips; and then he left. 

Dean sat there and blinked, not sure what to make of the encounter. He enjoyed it, but Cas had looked so solemn and severe while doing it he wasn't sure Cas enjoyed it. That's not how it was supposed to be. He looked off in the direction Cas went. Should he get up? Should he follow Cas? Maybe he should, but Cas didn't look very happy, but then Cas had kissed him. What the fuck. Cas came with so many rules. Cas came with so much ... stuff: sensitivity, he guessed, or whatever, kind of like Sam, only worse than Sam. Cas just kissing him and walking off; Cas probably still mad at him and kissing him so that Dean would think it was ok to kiss back and then get in trouble.

Fucking angel.

**

There was a hunt; Cas declined the invitation and neither brother was surprised. They left him to his archives, where at least, if he was not happy, he was content. He, of course, missed them when they were gone; he worried about them both. But it wasn't as if he didn't know he would feel that way, having stayed behind before. They would be home soon, and these feelings would go away, just like always.

**

Soft voices in the middle of the night woke him. He sat up, listening carefully, but the cadence and the inflections were voices he knew. Sam and Dean were home. He looked at his clock; it was just after three in the morning. The voices were carrying down the hall from the large communal bathroom they all shared, and that was curious. Cas got out of bed, opened his door and looked out into the hall. The door of the bathroom was half open and he could see shadows moving around. It was odd for them to be in the bathroom at the same time, so he went down the hall and pushed the door open.

They turned to look at him, both with a different reaction. Sam was startled and Dean looked pained. It might be from the litter of bloody towels and gauze and other things. Cas just stood there in the doorway, taking it in; there was so much blood. It was coming from Dean.

“What … what happened?” he asked, knowing it was redundant. They were on a hunt, they were hunting monsters, there were risks.

“It's okay Cas,” Dean said, taking deep breaths. His cheek was slashed, and there was blood coming from the side of his neck and his shoulder. “Go back to bed, Sam and I got this.”

Cas stood there, watching, and Sam went back to gingerly patting Dean's shoulder and the side of his neck with a towel, trying to judge which cuts would need to be sutured closed. Cas could feel his fingers moving, stroking over his own palms and Dean wasn't looking at him anymore, he was looking straight ahead. He should have gone with them; how could he protect them if he was not with them? How could he protect them as he was now? How could he make sure Dean lived to come home to him every time?

“What can I do?” he asked, knowing the answer would be nothing, there was nothing he could do, nothing but stand there and look foolish and nervous and prompt Dean to try to comfort him. And as if on cue ...

“Cas, look, I know it looks bad, but I've had a lot worse, trust me, okay? Go back to bed,” Dean said, turning to look at him again, breathing hard through his nose.

Dean in pain and lying to protect Cas. Dean protecting him, again. Over and over, like he was in Cas' permanent debt. Dean reluctantly giving in, willing to spare a witch. Dean giving him space in which to grieve, Dean trying so hard to make this human experience work for Cas.

“It's okay, Cas, I'll take good care of him,” Sam said then. Cas nodded, mutely and turned way and walked slowly back to his room and sat on his bed. He could still hear them, faint and muted. He could hear Sam, knew clearly it was Sam and then Dean, loud and muffled, exhausted and pained. He waited for a long time, until the voices hushed, until the bathroom light was shut off, until he heard the pair of them come down the hall. Then Sam, to his room on the opposite side of the hall, door closing, and then Dean down the hall and on the same side as Cas, door closing. He waited for a bit after, and then he got up, opened his door and went down the hall to Dean's.

**

He put a towel on the bed before he laid down gingerly. It was so he wouldn't ruin his mattress if he bled through something during the night; he'd done it before many times. He heard the creak of his door, turned his head a little, trying not to move to much to pull his stitches. He knew it was Cas because it wouldn't be Sam, not like this. 

“Thought we told you to go back to bed,” he said, softly.

“There are a lot of things you tell me to do, and I don't always do them,” Cas said, slipping in, shutting the door behind him. “I don't know how you expected me to simply go back to sleep after seeing you there. Are you sure you shouldn't go to a hospital? They have more adequate facilities, and stronger pain medication.”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Dean said, tiredly. “Just creates hassle and paperwork and trying to come up with an explanation why you have claw marks all over you.” He gave a pained half laugh. “We keep the hospital for things we can't sew up. Come on and sit down.” Dean patted the bed beside him. “I'm a little too wired to sleep right now anyways, we can talk.”

Cas came over then, got on the bed very gingerly as not to disturb Dean to much. Sat close but not right up on him and looked at him, reached to touch his cheek on the un-bandaged side.

“This is but an earthen vessel,” Cas said quietly, sorrowfully. “There is so much I want to tell you, Dean Winchester. So much I have to share, but it's locked inside me now. There are so many things that want to rush out of me when I see you in pain, covered in blood. That is when I feel the loss so keenly. You do not want to hear me say I should have been there to take this blow for you, even though that is what I feel. You do not want to hear me say I wish you would not hunt because of my selfish fear of losing you. You do not want to hear me say I wish I could heal you, I would give anything for just a moment of grace in which to give to you. And yet, I say all of this knowing that you will try to comfort me for my failures. That is perhaps the most painful thing to bear; your love and your forgiveness. I shouldn't say any of this to you; I should be able to hold it within myself, but I am not myself anymore and never will be again. I have in His mercy, you, which by His will alone. I cannot think of how this has happened, but it has; and if I'm meant to have you, I shouldn't try to deny it anymore.” The Cas gave a sigh and looked at him.

“But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies,” Dean said, looking pleased with himself.

“Lamentations, Chapter 3, Verse 32,” Cas said softly, surprised.

“I nailed that quote,” Dean grinned at him. “You got awfully formal on me there. You know how I am when you get all formal.”

“Forgive my weaknesses,” Castiel told him, with a sigh, “it is because I am an angel, you know, we tend to speak with grandeur.”

“So, now is where I pretend I don't know what you're talking about,” Dean said. “But I do. So you get to have me, huh? Do I get any say?” He gave his angel a lop-sided smile.

“No,” Cas said testily. “It's been decided by forces outside of our control.”

“Look at me,” Dean said and when Cas turned his head and met his eyes, Dean grinned.

“I love you, too,” Dean told him and Cas carefully lay down beside him and put an arm over his waist. And after that, they both went to sleep.

**

“Ding Dongs,” Cas said, examining the box Dean had tossed into the shopping cart. Dean thought it was the most annoying fucking thing, that everything he put into the cart Cas pulled out and read aloud. It was kind of embarrassing, considering he shopped at about a five year old's capacity in the cookie aisle.

“They're little chocolate cakes, they're good,” Dean said. “They just have an unfortunate name. Sue me, I like them.”

Cas dropped the box back into the cart and turned to look at the shelf of snack cakes himself. “Zebra cakes,” Cas said, showing Dean the box, holding it up to cover his face and nose so that just his eyes were peering over the top.

“Yeah, so?” Dean said.

“Are they enticing as well? Their name suggests a large, wild animal roaming the savannah in an endless bid to avoid becoming prey. Much more provocative than Ding Dong in my opinion.” Then Cas made the box dance back and forth.

“What the fuck was that? You have some crazy and fucked up opinions and ...” he trailed off as a woman with a child in her cart wheeled past them, giving Dean the mother eyes of death. When Dean turned back to Cas he'd traded out his zebra cakes for a box of Star Crunch and was holding these up now.

“This name suggests extraterrestrial confections,” Cas started. Dean snatched the box away from him, put it back on the shelf, pushed the cart away.

“Keep it up,” Dean told him, “I'll pretend I don't know you.”

“You did that already,” Cas said. “I followed you and Sam through that store saying your name every fifth step, I counted,” Cas said cheerfully, “that is why Sam won't come shopping with us anymore.”

“Why don't you go re-stack all the watermelons or something while I finish up,” Dean suggested with a smile. “You love symmetry, go practice that somewhere. Go make sure all the juice bottles are facing outward, go do something magnificent for them that they won't pay you for. This store loves you for that.”

“I have a feeling I'm being used in that manner,” Cas said, leaning confidentially close. “The assistant manager always makes it a point to hurry over to us when we come in and offer us coupons.” They rounded the corner into the next aisle. Two children came up and latched themselves to Cas' legs. It was always a problem when they went out: small children clinging to Cas.

“I did nothing,” Cas said, holding up his arms in order to avoid touching them.

“It's got be residual angel mojo or something,” Dean said, looking around for a parent. The appropriate parent was located, the children were pried off and, free once again, they continued their journey. They were getting close to produce, Dean doubled his efforts to ditch Cas.

“Hey I know, go find me a good cooking magazine. They always love for you to straighten the magazine rack,” Dean said. “You keep up the good work, we might get free groceries one day.”

“You are deliberately trying to distract me from the fact that we are heading for the produce section,” Cas said, narrowing his eyes. “I am aware you find my delight in agriculture the height of embarrassment so I am going to the produce section with you and if you pretend you don't know me, you will be very, very sorry.”

“You're supposed to be a fucking angel,” Dean snorted.

“I am, and I'll tell everyone in the store all about it,” Cas said. “Then you can use that story you like to use about my missing medication.”

“Why do I let you come with me to the store?” Dean asked, “What possesses me to want to be seen in public with you?”

“You love me,” Cas said, with a smile and a squint, then fell upon the first bin of apples they came to and began to sniff each one. Dean sighed: what could he say to that?

**

Cas was standing at the kitchen counter supervising Dean as Dean put away the groceries. He was also sniffing a cooking magazine he'd selected before they left the store. It had an appetizing picture of some sort of casserole on the cover, and Sam liked casseroles. It was a little tribute to how he missed Sam on their excursion, so Sam would receive a casserole from his elder brother's efforts. Then Dean came over to him, took the magazine away and sat it on the counter, then walked into Cas and backed Cas against the counter. Surprised, Cas reached back and braced both hands on the counter as Dean leaned into him. Dean put his hands on top of Cas' hands, there on the counter, leaning into them, pinning them and forcing Cas to arch himself against Dean's body. Dean abruptly pushed a leg between Cas' legs and Cas looked at him, wide-eyed, and then Cas realized they were having an intimate encounter and he started to smile, watching Dean's face. Dean didn't smile back, Dean looked serious and concentrated and Cas liked that, he liked the way that made him feel in his stomach and lower, in his genitals. Dean had wonderful eyes and Cas loved to look at them. Sometimes Dean would look right back, sometimes he'd look to the side, but now he looked right back and he licked his lips and tilted his head. Cas expected the kiss, and he pushed up as much as he could when Dean put his mouth on him, and he squirmed in Dean's hold, and Dean rocked forward a little, and Dean's thigh pressed into Cas' groin, and that was wonderful. And they kissed and Dean licked into his mouth and pressed his head back and Cas struggled to keep up and not just be swept away in how good it felt, because everything felt good now and he just wanted to wallow. Finally perhaps he and Dean could become more physical. Dean had worked for it just by being Dean, and Dean thought he was ready, Dean thought he had the knack of being a human. Then Dean's palm was pressing on Cas' crotch and that was just about the most intriguing thing ever and Cas arched himself up, going up on his tiptoes and grabbing Dean's arm because Dean still had one of his hands pinned. He made noises into Dean's mouth about how much he was appreciating all this sensation. The heel of Dean's hand pressed into him, started to rub in a slow circle and Dean's fingers cupped under his balls and Cas tried very hard to latch onto Dean's tongue and nibble in Morse code just how transcendental he was finding the entire experience. Then Sam came in to get something to drink.

Dean jerked back then, completely released every part of Cas and took a step back. Sam froze and swallowed and said nothing. Cas was incensed: why had Dean stopped? So he reached forward, put his arm around Dean's neck, and tried to draw him back down. Dean wasn't looking at him, he was looking at Sam, and Sam clearly didn't know how to react: he kept rocking back and forth between the refrigerator and the door to flee. Dean reached up and removed Cas' arm and backed away enough that Cas couldn't easily grab him and Cas glared between the two.

“Sam, will you please leave? Your presence is disrupting your brother's sexual proclivities, and I was enjoying them,” Cas huffed. “What do you want? Another bottle of water? Dean, get him one so he'll leave!”

Sam and Dean both jerked and flailed around. Dean snatched the refrigerator open, grabbed a bottle of water and pretty much chucked it at Sam's head. Sam caught it and backpedaled, then turned and fled out of the kitchen door.

“Knock next time!” Cas called after him: there, the social niceties were out of the way. He turned to scowl at Dean, and Dean burst into laughter. 

“What?” Cas demanded, uncomfortably aroused and not getting any satisfaction.

“Did you see Sammy's face when you told him to get _out_?” Dean seized up with laughter again. “I wish I had a camera, fuck, Cas that was great.” Dean wiped his mouth, grinned huge and shook his head.

“He's gone,” Cas stressed, “let's proceed with our previous activity!” He shifted, reached down to adjust himself and wondered how to entice Dean back.

For some reason this just made Dean laugh again, and harder. Dean attempted to school his expression, but lost the battle. 

“Are you just going to stand there and laugh at me?” Cas half-wailed. “I thought this was a culmination of all our restraint! Why is Sam's presence so disruptive as to completely negate the encounter? I was _enjoying_ that. Weren't you? I thought this was the herald to nudity and other human copulation activities!”

And Dean pounded the counter with one fist, laughing so hard he was turning colors and Cas sincerely, very sincerely, for one moment, wanted to find Dean's favorite skillet and bash his skull in with it. Instead he turned and left the kitchen. 

“Aw, no, Cas, wait, I'm sorry,” Dean said, trotting after him, wiping at his eyes. “Come on, baby, it was just so funny, you have to admit it was pretty funny.” 

When they got up the stairs to Cas' room, Cas turned back to Dean and Dean put on a smile, an eyebrow wiggle and a jut to his hips. Cas put on his own smile, then he reached up, shoved Dean in the face, went into his room and locked the door.

** 

Cas poked through the box that Dean had dragged out of his closet. He was looking for an odd or end and now that he had a place to store them, he'd collected a few. Cas pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open and wondered why it was kept in this box. The Winchesters burned through phones just about as fast as they burned through matches and it wasn't like them to keep one. So when Dean came back into the room, he showed him the phone. “What's this?” Cas asked.

“That is a box of my shit, why are you going through it. Why are you in my room, I thought we were fighting again?” Dean said.

“You think we're fighting? Is this because I have rejected your advances lately?” Cas said, leveling a look at Dean and flattening his mouth.

“What am I supposed to think?” Dean came over, snatched the phone out of Cas' hand and looked at it a moment, put it back in the box. “Leave it alone,” he said.

“You don't want me in your room, that's fine,” Cas said. “Perhaps when you can think with other parts of your anatomy you can seek me out. Stay here with your box of mysteries and a cell phone.”

Dean threw his hands up, ran a hand through his hair. “Cas, why the hell are we doing this? Look, I said I was sorry about a dozen different ways for the other day. I don't know what else to say,” Dean spread his hands. “That puts the ball in your court, when _you_ get over your sulk then maybe we can get back on track again.”

Cas tapped the sides of the box, gave Dean a sidelong look, then sighed. “I'm not sulking,” he said, “it was just that was a ... moment and I was really unhappy it went away.”

“Me too,” Dean commiserated, “trust me, really fucking unhappy, okay? We can get a moment back,” he said. “Won't be hard: you're willing, I'm willing, that's all it takes.”

“Can I have this?” Cas picked up the old cell phone again. “I've been meaning to keep one and pull it apart,” he said, but Dean came back over, took it from him again, put it back in the box.

“Cas, leave it, it was Benny's,” he said, then picked the box up and went over to slide it back into the closet.

Oh.

Dean had kept a memento. Well Cas supposed that wasn't out of bounds: after all, he and Benny had been friends; very good friends. Benny had helped them both in purgatory. Benny was there when Dean was lost to everything; Benny had fought beside Dean, Benny had been loyal to Dean, Benny hadn't betrayed Dean or lied to Dean. Benny had been all the things to Dean that Sam and Cas, himself, were not. He tried instead to think of Dean's arms around him by the lake. To think of Dean's smile when he had seen him, to think of Dean's reassurances that he would not leave Cas to a fate that Cas had wanted; and even then Cas had misled him, betrayed him at the end, hurt him. Benny had never hurt him, not the way Cas had done.

Cas, of course, knew of Benny's fate. Dean had told him because Dean thought that Cas would care; Dean was honoring the memory of his friend. Cas had tried, very hard, to care, and he did, a little. Benny had also not turned his back on Cas, even though Cas had made it clear he was not there to be Benny's friend. Benny, a vampire, had schooled an angel in friendship and to this day, it still hurt. He should have said more to comfort Dean after his story and he felt petty and he felt small and he felt all too human now that he felt these things. Such things were easier to assimilate as an angel, when all emotions came dulled and muted, and some were easier to shunt aside.

“What is it?” Dean said and Cas started, he'd almost forgotten Dean was there; he'd almost forgotten that he'd invaded Dean's room just to be near him. He shrugged, he said what was on his mind, because that was his biggest weakness.

“I should have been more fair to Benny,” Cas half-whispered, “now I feel regret and I am unable to apologize to him.”

“It's okay,” Dean said. “It was a tough time for all of us. Benny was trying to get out and maybe he was afraid I wouldn't help him if he didn't help you.” 

Dean was trying to save Cas from himself, once again. Why did Dean think this was forever his job?

“You know that's not true,” Cas said. He took a deep breath. “You know I was jealous.”

Dean came over then, looped his arm around Cas' neck, pulled Cas forward and kissed his forehead before releasing him. “It's okay,” Dean said, “I'm strangely not that upset about it. And that being said, you shouldn't be upset about it either.”

It was probably easier said than done, but he liked comfort from Dean, so he took it.

**

Sam had a lead, it was five hours away. Cas decided he would come.

Sam and Cas arrived at the Impala at the same time and both of them went to the front passenger side door. They stood and looked at each other, Dean comes walking out there to his customary driver's side door and stopped.

“Cas, what gives, I get shotgun,” Sam said.

“I haven't said anything about your weapon of choice, but I'd like to ride up front this time,” Cas said.

“That's not what that means, it's slang Cas, riding shotgun means riding up front,” Sam explained.

“Oh, all these language nuances, I'm not used to them yet. I remember that phrase being used in this particular setting before. Very well then, I'd like to ride shotgun, please,” and Cas smiled at Sam pleasantly.

“No,” Sam said with a snort, reaching for the door handle.

**

“Why not?” Cas asked, moving in close. Dean realized Cas did this now to make people other than himself uncomfortable. When they were uncomfortable, they got nervous and Cas could control the situation. It was really damn smart and Dean was impressed. Sam took a step back but kept his hand on the door handle.

“Because I always ride up front, Cas,” Sam told him. 

“I challenge that,” Cas said, leaning forward despite his height disadvantage. “I fail to see how the fact you always do something means there isn't any room for change. I should be a viable candidate for riding in the front as well. There should be a fairness system.”

“What? Look, Cas, okay, I appreciate that, I really do, and in any other setting I would agree with you; but the car is the exception to the rule. I'm not doing this to be mean, but you have to acknowledge I have more rights to the front seat than you do.” Sam gave him a half smile and a shrug.

Cas squinted hard, made his mouth a hard thin line and flared his nostrils a little. This worked on Dean in most occasions, but not so with Sam and Sam held his ground.

“This is some clique or caste system and I thought that was frowned upon. This is a clique of you and Dean and I'm being excluded. I fail to see the righteousness in this act.” And with that Cas turned to look at Dean, then Sam looked at Dean. Then Dean, being looked at, got into the car.

“See? No validation there, Dean agrees with me,” Sam said.

“That was not agreeing with you, that was avoidance, something Dean is exceedingly good at,” Cas said. 

“Oh well,” Sam said with another shrug, then put a hand on Cas' chest, pushed him back and got into the front passenger side of the car and shut the door. Cas stood there a moment with his wide eyes and indignation, then he yanked open the back passenger side door and got into the car and slammed the door to make his point. 

“Hey!” Dean said, then realized he'd inadvertently blundered into something he was trying hard to stay out of, so he shut up.

“This is not settled,” Cas said from the back seat. “I have reasons as to why I want to sit up front; very valid reasons, it's not an idle request.”

“Ok, reasons such as?” Sam prompted. But really, he should have known better.

“Dean and I are working to have a more intimate relationship. If I sit up front with him I can be closer, pick up on body language, cues from his facial expressions and perhaps touch him, things I can't do in the back seat,” Cas began.

“No wait... ” Sam said, half-turning in the seat to look at Cas, trying to head off the inevitable too much information Cas had no problem with imparting.

“I would very much like to have sex with Dean, but we are always railroaded away from it somehow,” Cas continued to explain despite Sam's protests. “At the moment I am experiencing some anxiety as to this actual event coming to fruition; I'm also somewhat perplexed as to why Dean isn't helping me achieve my goal of sitting in the front seat next to him. I can't figure out if it's favoritism or familial obligation. Now having said that, I myself have been assured many times that I have a familial bond with our group dynamic, so if it is favoritism I am horribly offended and therefore perhaps I don't wish to have sex with Dean. But then that's a lie to myself, I think about sex with Dean often.” Cas tried to look at Dean in the rearview mirror, but today, unlike most days, Dean kept his eyes on the road. “He won't even look at me,” Cas lamented.

“Okay,” Sam said, trying to butt in now, trying to get Cas off this line of reasoning.

“I thought you were in favor of our pairing, you always seemed to be approving, have I read that wrong?” Cas said, appealing to Sam. “Did you come into the kitchen that time on purpose? I thought that was our turning but since that time we are once again at a stand still. I don't feel that daytime television is a reliable resource for sussing out what the problem could be. I tried watching a variety of shows with various topics on being intimate with your man, but it's just a confusing clusterfuck of conflicting opinions.” Cas all but wrung his hands. “I will, of course, continue to enjoy our prolonged tease if that is what it is meant to be; but I really thought we had moved past flirting. I do enjoy flirting. I can flirt more if that's what you want,” Cas said, trying to catch Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror again.

Sam was quiet for a moment. He turned back to look out the front window again.

“I have never felt so guilty for being an unintentional cock-block in my entire life, and what's more I can't believe I even said that. Two motel rooms tonight, Dean,” he said to his brother. “Don't come out until you've laid him.”

“Who are you guys and how do I get off this ride?” Dean asked.

**

They stood in the motel room, just the two of them, looking at each other.

“I had rather hoped this would be a mutually consented course of action and not one mandated by your brother,” Cas finally said to break the silence.

“Oh my god,” Dean said. “Oh my god, shut up. You went there and that is a place you never, never go. That just killed the mood for the next ten years.”

Then it was Cas' turn to look stressed. “What? We're still not going to have sex because of your brother? He's not even here!”

“You brought him up, you said that he said we had to do this and wow, Cas, wow, just ... I can feel my balls retreating into my body as I speak,” Dean growled. 

Cas just stood there, looking stunned and a little like he might cry. He sort of swayed and staggered over and sat on the end of the bed. It was a single king-sized bed and Dean was just now realizing it was Sam who had procured the rooms. Oh great, way to go, Sam. Clearly drinking was in order.

“I'm going to make a booze run,” he told Cas, and Cas just tilted his head at him and looked at him and Dean felt guilty, but not guilty enough to keep him from drinking until he passed out.

“I read that men have difficulty performing when inebriated,” Cas said with a small voice. Dean decided upon refraining from mentioning that was the general idea. He got his keys, he checked his wallet and he went out the door without looking back.

What was wrong with him? Here he was, here it was: the opportunity, the missed moment realized, it had all came around again like he said it would, like he knew it would. And what, he couldn't because Sam was okay with it? How fucked up was that; he'd known Sam was okay with it. Sam gave every indication he was okay with it from the moment it became an it to be okay with. Just what was his baggage this time? He really thought it was Cas being sulky after the kitchen thing, was that really it? He got into the Impala, he drove around and found a liquor store, he bought things to make him drunk and he got back in the Impala and drove back to the motel, but circled the block three times before parking. He then sat in the car for about half an hour after that, and then he finally screwed up the courage to go back to the room and face Cas.

Cas was pretty much where Dean left him, only he'd kicked off his shoes and was sitting cross-legged on the bed when Dean came in. Dean put his bag down on the table, pulled out his first six-pack and then freed one from its plastic ring. He held that one out to Cas. Cas took it without saying anything and Dean sat there at the table and popped the tab on his. He finished it quickly, sat the empty can on the table, came over and took Cas' not yet empty can from him and sat it on the floor, then pushed Cas onto his back on the bed and climbed over him, settled on top of him, holding himself up with his elbows, and he ran his fingers into Cas' hair.

“Why're we so fucked up like this?” he asked Cas, who hadn't offered the slightest resistance to anything Dean was doing. “We're hot and we're cold and I don't get it.”

“That's a Katy Perry song,” Cas said, lying under him, and Dean gave a groan and a laugh and leaned to press his forehead against Cas' shoulder. He felt Cas put a hand on him then, run it up his side, curve it over his shoulder. Then Dean kissed him. Cas tasted like cheap beer, he smelled like Sam's douchebag spray deodorant, and he was warm and pliant. When Dean released him, Cas licked his own lips and continued to look up at him, eyes half-squinted.

“I want to make you feel good, angel,” Dean said quietly, rubbing his fingers into Cas' scalp, watching his face.

“You do make me feel good,” Cas told him. “Intimacy isn't required for that; it just feels good to be near you,” and Cas smiled, “most of the time,” he amended, “when you're not being an ass.” Cas nodded at the end.

Dean kissed him again, he couldn't not kiss him after that, and Cas made a happy sound, pulled at Dean's shirt. Cas' happy sound made Dean happy, too. He pushed to sit up on his knees, straddling Cas and started to unbutton the buttons on Cas' shirt and Cas pushed his fingers under Dean's shirt. Cas' long fingers, pressing into the flesh of Dean's stomach, a brief exploration of Dean's navel. Dean grinned at him, wrinkled his nose, squirmed and Cas smiled at him. Dean got Cas' shirt open, scooted down out of Cas' reach and sat on his thighs to work open his belt buckle, to start on his button fly jeans: Cas and his button fixation. Once those were open there wasn't anything else: Cas was rebelliously commando and Dean knew that. There was dark, wispy hair there just below Cas' navel, trailing down into the opening of his jeans.

“I can't reach you,” Cas said and Dean smiled at him, shook his head, backed off and stood to grip Cas' jeans and work them down, pull them off, then his socks, and he paused then. He looked at Cas there on the bed in an unbuttoned shirt and naked everywhere else. Cas raised his eyebrows at him, then pushed up to sit up, leaning back on his hands. Dean gave a one-sided smile, watching Cas being comfortable in his skin, even if it wasn't originally his own. Dean reached down and gripped the bottom of his t-shirt, pulled it off over his head and dropped it there at his feet. Cas tilted his head, and gave Dean such a frank appraisal that Dean started to get a bit uncomfortable. This was just his chest, what was Cas going to do when looking at the rest?

“Uh, is this okay?” Dean asked with a slight head tilt of his own, and Cas nodded at him. “You're just being really quiet. Usually you aren't afraid to comment on a new experience.”

“I do, usually, have a comment,” Cas agreed, “but this is an exceptional experience and I'm having trouble organizing the rush of thoughts and feelings into something coherent just yet. It isn't disconcerting to you, is it? I can make an effort if I need to, but please don't stop.”

Somehow Dean thought that was probably the most incredible compliment he'd ever received and he didn't fully understand it. But he decided to interpret it as that he was rendering Cas speechless; somehow. With that, and a small shrug of his shoulders, Dean undid his own belt and jeans, slid them down and stepped out of them. Dean was not rebelliously commando: Dean liked a barrier between himself and a zipper. Cas sat forward then and Dean paused, looking at Cas, before divesting himself of his briefs.

“Are we still good?” he asked, still paused there, holding the waistband of his briefs.

Cas pulled his eyes from where Dean was holding his briefs, and settled them on Dean's face. “I still fail to have a coherent answer,” he said rather mournfully, “and my quickening arousal isn't helping any. Can I give an analysis afterward? Would that be all right?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said, “fine.” Then Dean rolled his briefs down and pulled them off and came over to the bed and sat down beside Cas. Cas had no problem checking Dean out. He wasn't shy about his interest in the least and Dean sat there, sort of looking around while Cas had a good long look. Then Cas looked at himself. Dean's mouth twitched a little. Cas looked up at him and shrugged.

“Just now checking out the goods?” Dean asked, amused.

“It never occurred to me to scrutinize them before,” Cas answered. “Is this one of those male posturing things? I seem to recall this was a form of masculine oneupmanship from television. I don't really feel the need to participate in it, and it would seem pointless: we are of a similar size.”

Dean could count his really unique sexual encounters on one hand. He was pretty skilled in picking a partner with a similar skill set to his own. It made for compatibility, and that led to very good sex. He liked it that way: not predictable but guaranteed. So, unique: that was really a treat. So far, in fact, his unique encounters added up to one; and he was living it now.

“Yeah? Let me just check that.” And Dean grinned, reached down into Cas' lap and cupped him and Cas did the most amazing thing. He jumped and flailed and smacked Dean in the face as he flailed, probably by accident, and Dean released him and Cas panted there, wide-eyed.

“What the fuck just happened?” Dean said, feeling his own wide-eyedness.

“That was _astonishing_ ,” Cas gasped, looking at Dean. “I was completely unprepared for that sensation. I've been thinking about this for a while now and I thought that I had a pretty good parameter for how a flesh to flesh encounter might feel. That scale is blown to hell.”

“But I've cupped you before,” Dean said. “In the kitchen, I had a handful.”

“That was with my pants on and the level of arousal then wasn't anywhere near the arousal now. I'm getting very hard,” Cas looked at his crotch again, then at Dean, then down to Dean's crotch. “So are you.”

“I am, your complete weirdness is a turn on,” Dean assured him. “Damned if I know why.”

“I promised myself I wasn't going to take a philosophical approach during the encounter,” Cas told him. “Perhaps you should refrain as well. I thought it might be more of a detraction to the physical act to wonder how it fits into the flow of the cosmos; that tends to be time consuming.”

“Okay, good to know,” Dean said. “I'm going to try to touch you again, are you psyched up enough for that?”

Cas held up a finger. He took a few deep breaths and blew them out slowly, then he nodded. “I think I'm ready.”

“I feel like I'm defusing a bomb,” Dean said, then he turned in his sitting position, leaned in and tilted his head to kiss the side of Cas' neck, and placed the palm of his hand on Cas' chest. He did this with a lot of telegraphing his every move, so Cas would be prepared. Cas still jerked, just a little, but there was no flailing like the first time. Or maybe the flailing was reserved for the lower regions. Dean guessed he would find out, but for now, he smoothed his hand over Cas' chest and chewed the side of his neck and finally ran his thumb over the nub of Cas' nipple. Cas took a big startled intake of air at that, then he let it out with a slight raspberry sound.

“That was, again, very unexpected,” he told Dean. “I'm really disappointed that my speculations were all but pointless. I expect it's all the emotional attachment to not only the sensation but the fact that it's you delivering the sensation; I don't think I took that well enough into account.”

Dean pulled away again, looked at Cas and Cas looked back guilelessly and smiled at him. “Okay, that's it,” Dean said, “enough of this angel next door charm, you're getting a blow job,” and he pushed Cas down flat on his back. 

**

He liked the give of the mattress, the little bounce when he landed on his back. He liked the warmth of Dean's hand on his bare stomach and the way Dean was smirking at him. So far he liked everything about physical sex. When Dean pressed his legs apart, he gave no resistance. It caused him to tighten in wonderful ways and his cock was already throbbing a bit. Whenever Dean spoke or smiled at him in their unclothed state, it did that. He should have realized that would have been an important factor in this joining. Dean smiling at him, laughing (sometimes at him), Dean scowling, Dean grinning like no one else could: all these things affected Cas in various ways. If he thought about it carefully enough, he could indeed acknowledge some sensations that could be likened to actual arousal, which he was experiencing now. Then Dean was kissing his stomach and he sucked in a startled breath. Physical sex was so much touching; Dean's hands smoothed over his stomach, his hips, the top of his thighs and Dean's nose dragged a firm line from his navel to the hair at the juncture of his leg. He could feel hair prickling, flesh reacting; drawing up in gooseflesh.

He could feel.

It wasn't as if he couldn't feel before. His vessel of course came with the ability to react to physical stimulus. His true form, back when this wasn't his only form, only the form he borrowed, also had the same ability: it was a trait of living things. But the emotion that often connected to it was, at best, a trickle. A muted palette of soft light that, while acknowledged, wasn't really invested in; it was only there to give the notions of right and wrong.

But now, the emotions that blazed behind each stroke of Dean's hand on his flesh were beautiful and terrifying and Cas worked his throat and lifted his head to see what Dean was doing. He really didn't have to see: he could feel Dean's kiss on his thigh, then lower onto his inner thigh. Dean's hands did independent things, one was holding one of his legs, the other started to drag fingertips through his pubic hair, and Cas paused, and puzzled as to why he clenched his ass up instinctively. And then Dean gripped his cock.

As if to illustrate a point about hands on cocks, Cas made a very loud _hrmph_ sound. So loud that Dean paused and lifted his head to look at Cas, and Cas looked back at him, slack jawed, wide eyed and pale. He had, on occasion, touched that organ. It had been mostly out of curiosity, really. Here was the vaunted penis that people went on and on about. It had been rather limp when he held it and he'd really felt nothing at all but the warmth of his vessel's palm upon his vessel's penis. But now, Dean was holding it, and it was if Dean's hand was made of velvet and fire and it was almost impossible to process.

“You okay?” Dean asked him, looking concerned, and Cas could not even formulate an answer. “You want me to stop?” Dean continued and Cas felt a rush of panic and forced himself to speak.

“It's not a matter of what I want now but rather what I think I need before I have some sort of mental breakdown,” Cas said all in a rush, and panted.

“So uh, don't stop?” Dean asked him, with a confused tilt of his head. Cas just made a helpless gesture and a whine, and Dean studied him for a long moment, then slowly lowered his head to lap at Cas' balls.

Cas still hadn't processed Dean holding his cock yet and now another part of Dean was touching another part of Cas in a particularly sensitive area and it would just have to take a back seat and then Dean started to move his hand, tunneling Cas' cock in his fingers, dragging his palm up the shaft slowly, and how fair was that? Cas was behind now, very very behind and he remembered as the world started to go dark, that yes, as a human he was required to breathe. He covered his face with his hands a moment, then slapped them down on the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet on either side and pulled, and Dean made a noise of mirth like amusement from between Cas' legs and that pissed Cas off a bit.

“Its not funny,” he informed the irreverent Winchester. “I am sure this might be funny to you, since you seem to have all the carnal knowledge in the world. I'm not sure that's something to brag about and I've read conflicting articles both promoting and vilifying promiscuity so I'm on the fence about it. But this is like ... coming up for air. There as so many tactile variances in just these simple acts. How do you do this? How do you live like this with all this touching and feeling things against you every day? How is it possible you even function? It can't be that you're the superior being. I'm an angel, I was the essence of celestial knowledge and intent; I will not be undermined by crude human physical copulation.” Cas breathed hard through his nose.

“I don't think you're ready for this,” Dean informed him, then ducked his head and covered it with his arms as Cas screamed absolute fury at the heavens. 

**

Holy shit.

Dean was sure Sam had heard that, he was sure half of the state had heard that. He released all the parts of Cas he'd been holding and he sat up on his knees between Cas' spread legs and looked down at him. Cas was glaring at him now, eyes bright, red-rimmed. Then Cas raised one leg and kicked him in the side.

“Ow, Cas, what the hell?” Dean griped, shoving Cas' leg away. “Calm the fuck down, okay? You're going to hyperventilate or something.”

Cas sat bolt upright then, right into Dean's face, and Dean leaned back just a little. Cas grabbed Dean by his shoulders then, and Dean thought maybe he'd unleashed the kraken or something, because Cas looked downright scary. 

“I will rip off the arm I pulled you out of perdition with and beat you with it if you stop now,” Cas told him, looking slightly crazed.

“I don't know why that is hot, but it is,” Dean said, honestly. “You looking crazed and murderous is a good look for you. Man, that's fucked. Okay, you fucking bag of crazy, lay down again.” 

Dean watched Cas flop back down and glare at him like he was trying to flay the skin off him with his eyes. Dean was wary of foreplay now and that was weird, so instead of drawing it out, he settled down and gripped Cas and just popped him in his mouth, giving him a quick flick over the slit on the head of his cock before moving down. Cas became a statue, all stiff arms and legs and that was very weird and Dean paused in confusion and then Cas screamed at him in Enochian and he pressed Cas' dick to the top of his mouth with his tongue and gave it a hard suck thoughtfully. Cas scrabbled at the sheets when he did this and Cas suddenly became not a statue and pulled his knees up. Did Cas even know what the fuck he was asking for? That was not happening, no way in hell, not now, and he sucked again and he swore Cas started crying. Cas probably wouldn't last long at all, better to get this over with. So Dean got to work: he circled the bottom of Cas' cock with his fingers, he pulled them up as his lips descended, pushed them down as his lips ascended and pretty much tried tried to make Cas see God; figuratively. 

As predicted, it didn't take long: in fact maybe a dozen or so good hard sucks and Cas' back bowed up off the bed and Dean worked him through his release, letting Cas pull out of his mouth when he collapsed back to the bed, panting. He wiped his face with the sheet, sat up on his knees cautiously and looked to see Cas' face. Cas' cheeks were wet and he suddenly turned on his side away from Dean and rubbed his face into the sheets and Dean said nothing, sensing somehow this was some sort of overwhelming moment for the ex-angel. After a few minutes, Dean thought he should try to say something.

“Cas, you okay there?” he asked, voice kind of quiet. Cas curled up, swung a hand out as if to try to hit him or keep him back. Okay, whoa, what the hell? He sat back on his heels, baffled. His own need was waning a bit; just as well. He kept watching Cas, but Cas seemed to be hiding from him now. Should he leave? Should he give Cas some alone time? Why was Cas so much harder to understand than a woman? Oh right, angel of the lord thing. Cas had confessed to him, a while ago on one of the numerous occasions when they thought they were going to die, that he was for all intent and purpose a virgin. Yeah, Dean should have taken that into account, not that he had much experience with that sort of thing. He preferred his lovers with some track record knowing that if he did that he was unlikely to be disappointed. Sex was away to get release and he never picked a partner he thought he'd have a future with; well, except for that one time but he wasn't going to think about that. No, instead he'd become all twisted up with a creature older than dirt, wearing a stolen body, spouting celestial equations and being a noob at being a human. Go figure. 

He could never leave well enough alone, though, so he moved up the bed, crawled over Cas and leaned down to kiss his shoulder.

“Don't,” Cas said from the heap of his own arms he'd buried his head in. “Please don't.”

“I thought this was what you wanted,” Dean said, feeling a bit of alarm and mostly confusion. “What's wrong?”

“I'm not sure,” Cas said. His voice was audibly stressed and he finally turned his face enough to look at Dean, blue eyes rimmed red and wet. “I just have all this ... inside me. I feel: that is what is wrong, I feel and I don't know how you do this, I don't. I don't know if I can do this, Dean. What if I can't, what if this is what breaks us apart. What if this is why my brother jumped, what if this is why my sister cursed me because we aren't supposed to _feel like this_. It's so much more than I thought and I thought I wanted this but I don't know if I can do this; I don't. I don't know what to do because I know saying this to you is probably hurting you and it's hurting me to know that.” Cas took a deep rattling breath and Dean started to rub his arm. “It's a loop, it won't stop,” Cas continued on and the tears came again. 

“Cas,” Dean started, moved from over him, pulls him up and against his chest. But he didn't know what to say, he didn't know anything. How could he know any of this? How was he supposed to tell Cas that it would be better when he doesn't know? Cas now had all this vulnerability and all this potential for pain he never had before and what if he was right? What if this was what was driving them over the edge? “I am going to fix you,” Dean said then, fiercely, “I am going to find a way into heaven and I am going to kick Metatron's ass and I am going to get your grace back and I am going to fix you.” Cas nodded against him. “I'm uh, sorry the blow job did that to you,” he finished, lamely.

“I'm not,” Cas said, hoarse and sincere. “I want everything you have to give to me. What comes of it doesn't matter, as long as it's mine.”

Dean just pressed his nose into dark, messy hair then. Eventually they laid down. Eventually they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to give a huge shout out to my beta, Bob-Fish who dedicates a lot of her time to try and mold me into a better writer.
> 
> Art by Tacogrande


	4. And the hunter home from the hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was lost, is found; then lost again.

Cas seemed to become resigned to every emotion rubbing his nerves raw. Dean felt as if he was walking on eggshells for a couple of days after that one strange night in a motel room when Cas had equated a blow job to the end of his world. Dean knew that wasn't the truth, but it was hard to get past that analogy. And the guilt, Dean had the guilt. Sam tried to apologize, but Dean brushed it off; it was really, truly Cas' idea, after all, and just like all of Cas' ideas, it somehow blew up in his face. Well, Dean's face, if they were going to be technical. There was a weird, odd tension now, and Dean knew they'd have to get past it or it was possible that the three of them just couldn't hunt as a team. Sex ruined things and Dean knew that, he'd lived it, he just didn't know it was going to ruin Cas; not when Cas had seemed so eager in the first place. The other part of the problem was Sam and Sam's refusal to step up and talk about this with Cas. Sam told Dean it was not his job to discuss Dean and Cas' sex life with Cas, or to discuss with Cas why Dean and Cas' sex life had made Cas a head case, and that was just that. With no help forthcoming, Dean sort of floundered and kept to only asking Cas about necessary things like, did he want to eat? Sleep? Slit Dean's throat? Cas always told him in a listless and lackluster way that he was fine, and it was such a blatant lie that Dean felt a little uncomfortable that Cas wasn't trying to hide it. That was what men did, right? They hid their emotions, but then he remembered that Cas was new to emotions and probably didn't know he had to hide them. Great, another thing Dean had to teach him: self-repression.

Sam thought this was unhealthy and he let Dean know.

“So what, now he's the boy in the bubble?” Sam asked. “That's how we're going to treat this? Let him hole up in the archives until what? He'll run out of things to catalog or read eventually. Dean, he has to learn to accept this sooner or later, I don't think you're helping.”

“He doesn't have to accept it if I get his grace back,” Dean told his skeptical sibling.

“What are the odds of that happening?” Sam said. “The only way to get into heaven is to die at this point. Then what?”

“I team up with Bobby and Ash and every other dead person who might or might not side with me up there, kick Metatron's ass and toss Cas' grace off a cloud and hope you catch it,” Dean said, then gave Sam a thumbs up because his plan was awesome.

“You're impossible,” Sam reminded him.

“Damn straight. Please go talk Cas into liking the world again. You don't have to mention me or relationships or anything else,” Dean wheedled.

“He's not going to do it for me, Dean,” Sam said with long suffering patience. 

“See there you go again, let's get this straight, whatever it is Cas and I have, it isn't this romance novel Sarah Jessica Parker Sex in the City Mr. Big thing going on,” Dean said. “I fucked the dude up with ... never mind, we've been through that. What makes you think he's going to listen to a word I say? Cas has his own agenda.”

“An agenda of crippling self-denial,” Sam interrupted.

“I don't set his agendas, I barely get an appointment to see him not be looney tunes,” Dean snorted. 

“Dean, just ... make him a sandwich at lunch and try to talk to him, okay? Just do it, Dean,” Sam sighed.

“Okay, fine, Dr. Phil, I will,” Dean returned and huffed off.

**

“Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and bring thee into the place which I have prepared,” Dean announced, coming in and setting a tray down on the table Cas was seated at with a flourish. Cas looked up at him and Dean grinned.

“Exodus, chapter 23, verse 20,” Cas said, then looked down again.

“Yeah, okay, that one kind of sucked but there are very few mentions of angels in the Bible, and how is it only Michael and Gabriel got a mention by name, anyways?” Dean prodded, edging the tray closer to Cas.

“Michael possibly for driving out Lucifer, Gabriel because he was a loudmouthed attentionmonger,” Cas said, still not looking at Dean or at the tray. 

“Turkey sandwich with avocado,” Dean prompted. “Not my idea, but you seem to like the stuff Sam likes, so ...”

“Why is it that when we are having any form of conflict, you try to feed me?” Cas lifted his eyes from his book, fixed them on Dean and tilted his head.

“I hadn't noticed,” Dean said. “Are we, uh, having a conflict?” and he tried to look earnest, like Sammy could, and wondered if it just looked stupid on him instead. Cas suddenly dropped his eyes again, stared hard at the book. 

“It's difficult to look at you,” Cas said, staring hard at the book, “without feeling as if I might start to cry again; if you want honesty, it's very vexing. I don't wish to have these emotions that make me cry like the people on Maury Povich.”

“I told you not to watch that crap,” Dean said. “That is not a good example of how to be a human. Neither is The View. Watch reruns of Andy Griffith or something.”

“When is it going to stop being like this, how long did it take you to come to terms with this?” Cas asked, still glaring down at his book.

Dean gave a chuckle and a snort. “Never, I have never come to terms with any damn thing in my life. I'm not a good advisor. I told Sam to come in here and talk to you, but he won't,” Dean sighed.

“I'm glad he won't, I don't want to talk to Sam,” he looked up at Dean. “That is not to imply I never want to talk to Sam. I like Sam, he and I have our own bond of sorts now that we spend a lot of time together. He's insightful and compassionate and much more patient than you are. He's better with his people skills than you'll ever hope to be and he has an earnestness about him that is hard to set aside. So when I say I don't want to talk to Sam, I mean about this particular situation we have at this moment; not as in never talk to Sam again.”

“Yeah, I get that, “ Dean said with a little smile. “Cas, you're looking at me and not crying.”

“It won't last,” Cas said. “You'll say something poignant or you'll try to inspire me and it will just start again. Or I'll think about that humiliating blow job again.” Cas shook his head. “If I could take that all back, I would,” he said frankly.

“It wasn't that bad,” Dean said, picking at his finger now. “I don't get how I say stuff that makes you cry anyways, you just said Sammy is the sensitive one and I'm a brick. It's like a kid out with his learners permit, you're so afraid of bumping into other cars.”

“I don't drive,” Cas informed him. “Wait, is this one of your attempts at analogies? Don't pout, I didn't get that until just now. I'm sorry if I ruined it again.”

“You are such a shit,” Dean said. “I don't know why I even bother trying to share my awesome wit with you. Or make you awesome sandwiches you ignore.”

“It hurts your feelings when I don't appreciate your efforts to feed me, doesn't it?” Cas said, lip starting to extend outward a bit. 

“No,” Dean said quickly. “It just makes me irritated that you're wasting groceries and we have a budget.”

“You're lying to protect me,” and Cas dropped his eyes to the book again. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose in an effort to hide the fact he was wiping his eye on the side of his hand.

“No, Cas, come on,” Dean squatted at the table, put his chin on it. “If you all you can do is cry every time you look at me, how are we going to get anything done?”

“I'm trying to figure that out, stop what you are doing. It's attractive and endearing,” Cas groused.

Dean grinned at him, bounced his eyebrows up and down.

“I'm attractive and endearing?” Dean asked. “Or are you just saying that?”

“Do not flirt with me; I'm in a emotionally compromised state,” Cas huffed. 

“But I can't help it, it's my endearing-ness that makes me do it,” Dean sighed. “Does it help that I have big green eyes?” and Dean batted his eyelashes at him several times.

“Yes! Will you stop it now? I do not wish to flirt with you, can't you see I'm trying to come to terms with my profound bond? I am so attracted to you that I have a hard time internalizing all the emotions I feel when I simply look at you? How can you not see this turmoil I'm embroiled in?” Cas looked at him again, bared his teeth.

“So you want me so much it makes you cry?” Dean said, still right where Cas didn't want him to be. “It makes you cry during sex? Cas are you embarrassed that you cry during sex? Is that it?”

“I can see why Sam wishes you had an off switch now,” Cas said, low and exasperated. “Yes, does that satisfy you? It was more than the crying, it was the complete emotional siege, and I'm not used to it. I suppose sitting in here hiding from it isn't going to help me learn how to deal with it. Sam said I had to build up a callous against it.”

“So wait, Sam talked to you about this?” Dean said. That bitch.

“Yes, yesterday while you were watching Spanish soap operas,” Cas told him. “I didn't quite go into all the detail as I do with you, or do the crying,” Cas did wipe his eyes on his sleeve. “When I talk to Sam it's a heart to heart; with you it's somewhat more cathartic.”

“I'm glad you're here for Sam to be a girl with,” Dean told him with a small smile and sigh. “Feel better now?”

“Oddly enough, yes,” Cas said, put his elbow on the table, chin in palm and looked at Dean still squatting there. “Loving you has been a tremendous complication on my constitution.”

“Lovesick,” Dean cooed to him, made kissy lips at him.

“You think you're clever,” Cas said, leaning there, looking at him with half-lidded blue eyes.

“I am,” Dean said, gave him a little smile. Cas reached out then, pushed his long fingers against Dean's lips and got them kissed for his trouble. Dean watched Cas' lips twitch, but Cas took a deep breath and after a moment mastered it.

“Fast learner,” Dean congratulated him, standing up from his squat, but then leaning down on the table.

Cas pointed at himself with his other hand. “Brilliant, remember?”

**

The creature who came shambling into his room and climbed up onto his bed and bunched its hands in the front of his shirt and pulled should have been the end of him; but instead it looked at him with runny eyes and nose and bared teeth and said, “What have you done to me?”

It seemed Cas caught Dean's summer cold after all.

Dean freed his hand from the sheets, slapped it to Cas' forehead, then shoved him back, rolled over to curl up again. “You'll live, I did,” he said sleepily. “Either lay down or go back to your room.”

Cas did neither; he sat there on Dean's bed and made miserable wet sounds, nose sniffling, and finally he did a dramatic slow fall, his head landing on Dean's side. 

“You were almost this much of a drama queen before you became flightless,” Dean informed him with a snort. 

“You're very mean,” Cas bemoaned. “I made a real effort to enjoy seventies music and I did it for you, Dean. I liked The Starbucks. Moonlight Feels Right is a lovely song with a soothing melody but you acted as if I had broken some unwritten commandment. Now you're punishing me.”

“You played that shit in my car,” Dean told him. “Of course you have to suffer. Cas, it's just a cold, be a man, okay? You'll feel like crap for a couple of days, but you'll get over it. What about me, huh? I had it and did I sit around moaning about it, no. I did shit, I worked on Baby, I drove to buy my own Nyquil and I sat in the living room and watched porn.”

“I don't want to get better with porn,” Cas told him. “I find porn degrading to women. I'm leaking and I can't seem to make it stop. My sleeves are damp now.”

“No, Cas, no, don't make me get up and take care of you, you're a man, you are supposed to be stoic about this shit,” Dean groaned.

“I'm hungry and my eyes are itchy, why is there no food?” Cas dug his forehead into Dean's side. “You take care of me when I'm not like this, why is now an exception?”

Dean pulled the pillow over his head for a good minute before giving a muffled curse, tossing it aside and pushing Cas' head off of him so he could get out of the bed and go make Cas some damn soup or something.

**

Nowhere was a comfortable place to sit. Cas shifted around the room again. He perched on the edge of the couch near Dean, wrapped in two blankets and great misery. Every time one of the Winchesters looked in his direction he did his best to look pitiably near death. It was obvious he didn't think he was getting enough attention during his illness. He got up to move again.

“Okay, Dr. Cooper,” Dean groused, “I'll bite, what's wrong with you now? No one is sitting in your spot because you've never had a dedicated spot in here before. I'm trying to watch El Derecho de Nacer here. I gotta concentrate on it, man, not only do I have to translate in my head, you miss one little plot point and you're screwed.”

“I'm sorry that my illness is inconveniencing you,” Cas hissed. “Shall I go expire somewhere quieter? I can always go... ” but Cas started coughing and he coughed all through a dramatic scene and Dean admitted defeat and turned off the TV and got up and went to get the Robitussin. Cas saw him coming, got up to shuffle away, but Dean followed him with grim silence and determination and cornered him in Dean's bedroom.

“I don't want to take that, it's disgusting,” Cas said with watery eyes and put the bed between Dean and himself. “It gagged me, it's very unpleasant. I don't know why it is that while you are ill you have to endure even more suffering in the name of recovery. It seems pointless.” Then Cas had another coughing bout and Dean came around the bed and snagged him before he could shuffle away. He sat Cas on the bed, poured the prescribed-by-the-bottle amount into the little plastic cup that came with the bottle, and held it out to Cas.

Cas turned his face away.

“Cas, you are not a five year old,” Dean told him. “But if I have to climb on top of your ass and hold your nose like I did this morning, I will. We have the little discussion about you and your dignity and my lack of appreciation for it. I'm about to demonstrate further that your dignity and I have a love/hate relationship, as in it loves to hate me. Now, drink this or risk hacking up a lung.”

Cas looked at him with watery and slightly alarmed eyes, then. Dean felt sort of guilty over exaggerating a condition to get Cas' co-operation; but he wasn't fully convinced Cas wanted to be better because Cas seemed to like all the attention.

**

At first it was soup, and then blankets, then pillows on the couch and orange juice. Then Sam had petted on him and gave him magazines and watched game shows with him. Then they all watched a movie together and Dean let Cas sleep in his bed all night; something he didn't usually do. That had been yesterday. When today started differently, without so much petting and attention, Cas took it upon himself to show the Winchesters he was still, truly, at death's door. The cough syrup, was as far as Cas was concerned, an abomination. When Dean had offered a dose this morning, Cas had took the little cup, stuck the tip of his tongue into it, then promptly dropped it on the floor. This brought about the inevitable discussion about wastefulness and that he and Sam were not made of money and Cas had waved his hand at Dean and all but called him a peasant. Then Cas had a lesson of Dean being bigger and stronger than him now and that of course became Dean forcing cough syrup down his throat by sitting on him and holding his nose.

Cas informed him that was making Cas die faster, and Dean had called him a loser and left him sitting there on the floor in the puddle of cough syrup he'd wasted earlier. Then there was a heated exchange about dignity and Cas not having any and Dean threatening to strangle it if it ever came into the bunker with them. 

“Cas,” Dean said with forced patience, “this is what humans do to get better. I know this is a temporary condition, but when in Rome, yaddah, yaddah.” 

Cas snatched the little cup, downed the vile serum and thrust the little cup back at Dean and made bitter, long suffering faces. 

“Thank you,” Dean said and left Cas sitting there and then didn't come back. He was supposed to come back and tell Cas that enduring a human illness and taking human medicine was above and beyond the call of temporary human duty. Dean was supposed to come back in and lie down on the bed and let Cas huddle against his stomach. Dean was supposed to come back and let Cas complain without interruption. Dean was not doing his job and his job was making this miserable existence bearable.

“You're supposed to be in here making this better,” Cas finally called out, knowing he was probably alone upstairs. 

“Only a dog hits on a sick man,” he heard Dean yell back from down the hall. Then Dean appeared in the doorway. “Are you going to sulk up here all day?”

“Maybe,” Cas said petulantly. Dean came in then, pushed Cas over on the bed, climbed on top of him and physically laid on him.

Cas snapped and snarled, wiggled and shoved. “What are you doing,” he bitched, “get off me.”

“I'm being a hen,” Dean told him, “ you seem to want me to sit on you.” But Dean was grinning now, fending off Cas' hands, straddling his body and clutching with his knees so Cas couldn't dislodge him. Finally Cas gave up and just laid there. “Get better so I can hit on you,” Dean said. 

**

In celebration of Cas getting over a small summer cold that barely lasted two days, they took him out to eat. Dean insisted the celebration be a cuisine Cas had never had before and they ended up in a small Korean restaurant. Dean sat beside Sam and across from Cas. Dean tried to helpfully explain the menu. 

“Okay, soondubuchigae is tofu stew, it's the best and you can get it in all different kinds.” Dean pointed at the menu lying on the table in front of Cas. “You got pork and beef and seafood and kimchi, so you just pick what kind you want and how hot you want it. It goes from white and mild to sun scorching, tongue skin peeling, blistering hot. You might want to avoid that. Also kalbi, dude, that's Korean spare ribs, and this place has a stew and spare rib combo.”

“You know a lot about this, and all the names,” Cas said, staring at the menu. “I didn't know you could speak Korean.”

“He can't,” Sam told him, “he speaks food.”

“Which stew is the best?” Cas asked, running his finger over the many choices on the laminated menu.

“Well, I like pork kimchi best,” Dean said with a shrug, “I like it at the hot right before sun scorching, and that's still pretty damn hot. You might wanna try it mild to begin with, angel, I'm sure you haven't had the experience of the Korean people trying to set fire to your insides.”

“Please, human,” Cas answered back and Sam grinned at them. Cas had taken to flinging human around as casually as Dean flung angel. “I am aware there are spicy foods and I have even had some scorching Cheetos and I did just fine with them.”

“Scorching Cheetos is baby food, Cas,” Dean warned, “I'm telling you, don't tempt fate.”

“That is actually wise advice, even if misguided. If the fates sought revenge on me now there is little I could do to stop them,” Cas gave that mild shrug and eyebrow lift. “It doesn't mean that I can't eat spicy tofu stew,” Cas closed his menu.

Sam sort of felt he should add his own warning. “It's really hot, Cas,” he said with a sage nod.

“Thank you, Sam. It will be fine,” Cas assured him. So when Dean ordered, Cas did as he usually did: he copied Dean's order. Dean requested an entire pitcher of water be left on their table and Cas snorted his disapproval of Dean's obvious condescension. 

“Don't you make noises at me,” Dean told him with a finger shake. “I'm doing you a favor.”

Sam jumped in to change the topic to monsters: because that was the main topic of discussion no matter what the occasion. Waiting at the DMV? Let's talk about monsters. In the dentist's office? Let's talk about monsters. The grocery store line? Let's talk about monsters. That scary dream about monsters that's making me huddle in the corner with a baseball bat? Let's talk about monsters. It was a Winchester one-topic-fits-all sort of thing. Then Cas naturally contradicted Sam on the topic of monsters and there was a silent huff. That was new, but Dean sort of liked it.

Cas was amazed at the plethora of tiny dishes that came before the meal. Dean actually enjoyed explaining each one as best he could. Some he knew: glass noodles with bean sprouts, actual kimchi with napa cabbage and actual kimchi with radish. Some he knew by description: tiny fish with eyes that were sorta dried and, oh my god, those potatoes in brown sauce! Sam and Cas got maybe a bite of those before they disappeared into Dean's stomach. Cas stared at his stew when it arrived boiling, then he checked Dean and Sam's pots and then looked back at his own. 

“I didn't know the hot you were talking about might incur actual burns,” Cas said, bewildered. 

“No, Cas,” Sam said, “you have to let it cool down some before you eat it. It's hot both ways.”

“Eat your ribs first, oh, Sammy, tell her to put barley tea in the rice pot when she's done scooping out the rice. That's great, Cas, barley tea in the left over rice,” Dean assured him. “Mix your rice and stuff in it when you start eating it, Cas,” Dean instructed further. “Oh, and now is the time you should put your raw egg in and stir it around.” Then Dean demonstrated and Cas copied him. Dean smiled as he watched Cas tilt his head and smile at the swirl of egg he was making in his bowl.

**

Cas stared at his stew, willing it to cool down. He wasn't sure that waiting for his meal like this was pleasant until he copied Dean and started to eat his short ribs. They were, without doubt, delicious, and he sucked the sauce off his fingers with great pleasure. Dean secured them refills for all their tiny dishes: banchan, Dean called them, and that was also wonderful. But what he really wanted to do was eat his spicy stew and prove to Dean and Sam, but mostly Dean, that he was just as good at processing spicy foods as any human. For some reason he felt it was a challenge to eat this spicy meal, perhaps not an intentional one, but Dean suggesting he start out mild and then calling him angel on top of it made Cas ruffle the feathers he no longer had. Dean was determined to kid glove him, to walk him, holding his hand, though some things and while Cas appreciated and actually adored Dean's concern for his welfare it was, in truth, not necessary. He was perfectly capable. Sam tried to explain this to Dean as well with little luck. Dean would laugh at them both, then call Sam 'Sammy' and call Cas 'angel' as if to say, please, children, let me handle this.

Sam and Cas both found it irritating. Sam handled it with rolled eyes and facial contortions. Cas handled it with biting sarcasm, when he could think of it, and storming off to sulk. He wasn't aware that removing himself from the situation was storming off to sulk, but Dean insisted that it was. He watched and Dean scooped up a good bit of rice with his long-handled metal spoon and stir it into his soup before he tried it himself. He put the rice in and stirred it around to distribute it evenly, and then with much anticipation he lifted his first spoonful of steaming broth, now with rice, up and blew on it to cool it a bit further. He glanced at the Winchesters. Dean was intent on his food, Sam was intent on his cell phone and stirring his soup absently. Neither of them were bearing witness to his first spoonful of spicy Korean soup; well, that was their loss. Dean was now eating with gusto and still had not even glanced at Cas sitting there with soup hovering near his lips. If Dean could eat it like that, so could Cas. Cas took several spoonfuls in a quick succession, pausing to enjoy the silk texture of tofu. Then, of course, dropping his spoon into the bowl, picking up the pitcher of water and drinking from it directly.

There there was a lot of scowling at giggling Winchesters.

**

Sam abandoned them early for online gaming. Cas and Dean decided to splay on the couch and watch TV. Cas was still grumpy over the fact that Dean and Sam had had a hard time keeping a straight face in the restaurant after Cas half tearfully requested to be allowed to order a slightly less volcanic tofu stew. Dean brought the abandoned stew home to eat later. But he'd enjoyed it, he'd enjoyed that experience with Cas — through Cas, really; all the Korean food was new again simply because to Cas it was new. Dean wasn't sure how to classify that, why he thought about it like that. So he just focused on the fact that he'd had fun, eating tofu stew with Cas and his brother. He felt the touch on his hand, looked over at Cas. Dean had one hand on the couch between him and Cas, and Cas was touching it now. Running his fingers over Dean's fingers, tracing the veins on the back of it and each tiny scar with a finger tip. Cas wasn't looking at Dean, he was looking at Dean's hand, so Dean turned his hand over and Cas glanced up at him, smiled, then back down to trace the lines of Dean's hand.

“Come to bed with me,” Dean said, soft, quiet.

“Do you really mean that?” Cas returned. “You're not asking me there to sleep. I thought I'd traumatized you the last time we attempted that.”

“You did, but I got over it, and maybe you did, a little, too,” Dean insisted.

“Maybe a little,” Cas agreed.

Dean got up then, switched off the TV, stretched, then came over and held his hand out to Cas, and Cas slowly lifted his hand and put it in Dean's.

**

In bed, fully dressed save his boots. Dean sat back against the headboard, tugged Cas up to straddle his legs, to sit in his lap. Cas didn't object, settled quietly and cupped Dean's face immediately. Dean opened his mouth as Cas kissed him, as Cas' long fingers worked small circles against his jaw, as Cas moaned into this mouth. Dean wrapped lazy arms around Cas' waist and just enjoyed his weight, his lips, his kisses and the way he made noises into Dean's mouth. After a few moments he pulled back, still holding Dean's face, his eyes holding Dean's eyes and he gave a very slight half-smile.

“What is it, angel?” Dean asked, voice naturally muted to the mood. He moved his hand then, pushing one under Cas' shirt to rub at the bare skin of his back.

“I feel such a welling inside me when I'm with you like this; or even if I'm not with you like this and I just think about it. Emotion is such a disorienting process. I wonder why any creature would want to be crippled with such intensity, and then things like this happen, and I realize this is why,” Cas told him. “These are the same emotions that made me panic; it's so funny how very widely varied the range is; how it can slide so easily up and down. I'm a creature of order; I always have been. My routines are a way I keep my order; it's a way to hold onto who I am. I know you think they are superfluous, but I see them as I see you, an anchor.”

Dean watched him as he spoke, raised his face to Cas' thumbs as they stroked his cheeks. Then Cas called him an anchor and he remembered, Sam telling him that Cas saw him as an anchor to help him stay here; an anchor to keep him grounded and sane. Now Dean felt a welling himself, and he couldn't describe it; he could never put into words these feelings, not like Cas, not like Sam. It made his throat thick to just even think of trying. Cas's thumb stroked over Dean's lower lip now.

“So yes, that whole ritual with the coffee maker, that's necessary,” Cas told him. “I'm sorry it delays your coffee in the mornings, but I need that. So please, put the filters back where they go and make sure the silver coffee scoop is in the glass jar and the plastic coffee scoop is in the bag.”

And Dean laughed, a entire body laugh that made him lean forward and bump foreheads with Cas and he thought his jaw would crack from the grin. And he looked at this man's wary blue eyes and he loved him like nothing since Sam. 

“It's not funny,” Cas said a little defensively.

“Cas please, baby, cut me some slack, it really is,” Dean pleaded. “Don't be mad at me, it's just one of those things that's you and no one else. I really like them, okay? It's just me expressing my appreciation.”

“I'm letting you get away with this because I want to be naked with you,” Cas murmured.

“Thank you,” Dean said, moving to drag his mouth down the side of Cas' neck and bring his hands up to start working on Cas' buttons.

**

“I shouldn't,” Cas said, stopped to watch Dean a moment, “I shouldn't let you get away with things. I do that then you think you can get away with more things. You think I'll just let you. You think I'm some sort of push over,” Cas watched Dean open his shirt, he watched Dean slide the shirt off his shoulders. “I'm not a pushover, Dean,” he informed him.

Dean looked up at him, then leaned forward and kissed Cas on the chest, still keeping eye contact with Cas as he did so.

“You're not listening to me,” Cas complained. “You're using physical stimulation and adorable actions to distract me from the real issue here and that issue is ...” and then Cas sucked in a breath because Dean dipped his head lower and dragged his tongue over Cas' nipple. Then Dean settled there, closed his mouth over Cas' nipple and began to suck. He kept his eyes on Cas', though and raised his eyebrows as if encouraging Cas to continue Cas' thread of thought. As if that were even possible. Instead Cas grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and didn't go any further than that because he wasn't sure why he was grabbing Dean's hair to begin with. When Dean finally released him, Cas gasped and sagged a little.

“That was reality-altering,” Cas said, voice gravelly. “Why are humans such horrifically tactile creatures?”

“I can't wait to hear what you say if I ever get to fuck you,” Dean said with a grin. Then Dean started on the buttons of Cas' jeans. Cas watched him curiously, still playing with Dean's hair, tugging it, dragging his fingers through it, then down to scratch at the nape of Dean's neck and Dean grinned and winked at him, arched his head down for Cas to scratch.

“See? So tactile,” Cas said, enjoying Dean's enjoyment. It made him ache in pleasurable ways when Dean grinned at him. Dean gripped Cas' hips, encouraged him up onto his knees and when Cas complied Dean wiggled his jeans down as much as he could. 

“You got a thing against underwear,” Dean said. “I think I get the logic behind your button flies now.” “I have a thing against clothing in general but there is human law and Sam's sensibilities according to Sam,” Cas sighed. “Dean, I'm not above noticing the hazards of a zipper when my genitalia is involved. I know I'm new to the human pain centers, but I do understand pain and I have watched enough TV to grasp that is not a region where you want to pain to happen.”

“You're really fuzzy, too,” Dean said with a grin, looking down.

“I have nothing to do with that,” Cas told him, “the body came that way.”

**

Dean curled his fingers into the opening of Cas' jeans, rubs the back of them against the little bit of Cas' cock that was free of them and Cas squirmed in his lap and Dean liked that a lot. What to do with Cas? Maybe if he let Cas have more control, then it wouldn't be so overwhelming, or Cas might be able to process it better if Cas knew it was coming beforehand. 

“I want to fuck you,” Dean said frankly, then smiled as Cas nodded, already arching forward, rubbing himself on Dean's fingers. “But I want to take it slow and that's not a slight on you so don't make it one. You pointed out that emotions are still new and scary to you, so let's not have a repeat, okay? I'm thinking if I let you sit in my lap while it's going on, let you control the speed and the depth, well, that makes it more of a learning experience, doesn't it?”

“Intriguing,” Cas said, “could you please put more of your hand against my cock? It's really getting achy.” Cas sucked in his lower lip, then made a half-protesting sound when Dean removed his fingers and gripped Cas' hips again.

“Come on, Cas, you need to be the full monty for anything more, and what about me, huh? I can't get my jeans down with you sitting on me,” Dean told him. That stopped the complaints. 

**

Cas subsided, let Dean guide him through getting his jeans off, then he helped Dean get Dean's jeans down to his lower thighs. Then Cas sat further back on Dean's thighs and reached to finger the head of Dean's cock and Dean hissed appreciation, but he gripped Cas' hips to slide him close and reached back to pull the lube from under his pillow where he stashed it. Cas watched him slick up his palm, then he wrapped his palm around Cas' cock and Cas made a positively primal sound, then Dean pushed his cock up against Cas' cock and wrapped a hand around both. Was that even possible? Why was he still alive? What was happening? And when Dean stroked them together, Cas grabbed Dean by the shoulders and pulled him forward so hard that Dean's nose collided with the bone of his sternum, but he didn't care. He was straddling Dean's lap with Dean's face crushed to his chest and Dean's hand on his cock and Dean's cock against his cock in Dean's hand, and life as he knew it was over.

**

Ow, what the fuck? Dean thought it would be the height of irony if Cas gave him another bloody nose, this time during sex. He pulled his head back, looked up at Cas, but Cas had this strange glaze to his eyes and didn't appear to actually be there in bed with Dean but off in that bizarre Cas-land he sometimes went to when you left him on his own enough. The one where he sat around and stared at spots and talked to you in mathematic equations until you managed to bring him back to earth. He kept stroking them slowly and Cas rocked with it, sucking his bottom lip, and with his other hand Dean got the lube open again, got his fingers messy and used that hand to start slicking Cas up in back. He went slowly, just pressing at first. Cas made another startled intake of air when Dean's fingers brushed his anus the first time. He tried to rock back to the sensation but Dean still had him by the cock and he didn't want to pull free so he rocked forward again. He did this every time Dean brushed him and it became apparent to Dean that Cas was starting to look stressed about it. So Dean pressed a finger in the next time Cas started to rock back, just to his first knuckle and Cas stiffened up all over and looked down at him.

“What do you think about that?” Dean grinned. “You know you're the one who told me you weren't innocent of the act, but what you were really saying was you had watched porn and you thought you knew what you were in for; so go on, let me hear you say you're a know-it-all and sometimes you don't really know what you're in for,” and Dean wiggled his eyebrows. Instead of acquiescing, Cas grabbed his nose and twisted it. “The fuck?” Dean said, but it came out all befuddled because Cas was holding his nose.

“Don't be a smartass, human,” Cas told him, “I do know it all.” and with that he bore down on Dean's finger. “Now, get a move on, I have an appointment in your lap after we're all good and ready.” And Cas pushed back against Dean's finger.

Wow.

**  
Dean gave in then, he gave in to Cas' great satisfaction. The stroking increased and Cas swallowed and relaxed and breathed as Dean fingered him open, as Dean pressed into him and made him feel good. He worked his hands against Dean's shoulders, kissed the top of Dean's head, tugged Dean's hair with his teeth and just gloried in Dean Winchester, here with him in this intimate place. Dean Winchester wanting Castiel as much as Castiel wanted him. That was the true beauty of human intimacy: the sharing of each other, the implicit trust, the overwhelming humanity of it. Base creatures engaging in nature's oldest act.

Dean must have been satisfied with Cas' responses, because Cas moaned a bit of denial when he withdrew his fingers, released his cock and turned to licking at Cas' chest, cupping his hands under Cas' ass to lift him and move him forward even more. He looked up at Cas then, heavy-lidded green eyes, pursed lips and Cas reached behind himself, his fingers brushing and gripping the head of Dean's erection. Dean moaned then, a beautiful sound that traveled up the flesh of Cas' chest and then back down to Cas' crotch and Cas held Dean, steadied him, nodded to him. There was a pleasant ache, a stretch and burn that wasn't as pleasant but also wasn't unbearable. Then Dean removed his hands, placed them on the bed on either side of his hips and continued to look up at Cas. Dean was giving Cas control of the situation, Dean was only there to serve in the role of something for Cas to fuck himself with. 

** 

“It's okay,” he told suddenly anxious blue eyes. “Remember earlier you tried to twist my nose off for implying you didn't know what you were doing? so I'm afraid to give you any advice.” Dean grinned at Cas' exasperated snort. Dean pressed his forehead's to Cas, still keeping his eyes on Cas' and he smiled up at him. “Whatever you do, you're going to be brilliant at it,” he said, a softer tease. “There is no right and way wrong to do this, Cas; this is for you to enjoy and believe me when I say if you enjoy it, I will, too. So just breathe, Cas, and take your time. We don't have a train to catch.” 

Cas held himself where Dean had left him, joined but not moving. Dean had never been with a more or less virgin before; he wondered at his own composure and patience. It had to be another of those Cas things, another one of those little mysteries that surrounded Cas and made Dean act like Dean actually knew how to act in certain situations. A holy influence: Dean grinned and groaned to himself and that seemed to prompt Cas, who slowly, very slowly, seated himself entirely in Dean's lap. 

“Fuck,” Dean murmured.

“I concur,” Cas said faintly. “I'm not sure how to describe this or if I should even describe it. It's an unlikely event to compare to anything. Some equations pop to mind but you told me to keep my math to myself.”

Dean was grinning now: was Cas gonna be a sex babbler? He had all the potential and was known for running on ad nauseam about nothing.

“I suppose there are many ways to say this; but I find most slang referring to the act to be uncreative at best,” Cas gasped then jerked a little, spasmed a little and moved: lifting and lowering himself once, then stopping to over analyse the sensation. Dean just reassured himself Cas was a fast learner and he couldn't help but get better with practice. Long, sweaty hours of practice that Dean felt obligated to participate in with him.

“Did you know that the word angel has a meaning in the gay vernacular?” Cas continued and rocked himself forward, then up and down yet again. “It means passive person in the relationship, and I want you to know that even if you call me angel I'm not going to conform myself to that role.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, smiling, watching Cas move himself, wanting badly to take Cas' hips in hand and teach him a rhythm — but look at them, look at them having sex and no drama. Why ruin a good thing?

“Also, did you know that we engage in bareback sexual activity? You've never offered me protection and I've never really considered a need to ask for it. Until recently I was divine; maybe that is reassuring to you, and to me as well, I suppose.” Cas licked his lips then, stilled his voice for a moment as he started to ramp up his speed.

“Where the fuck are you getting all of this from?” Dean asked, reaching now to grip Cas' hips, not to direct, just to hold on.

“The internet,” Cas said, “since I was anticipating this in our future I took the time to do research. One of us needs to be touching my cock,” he informed Dean, “I'd rather it be you.”

Dean grinned, released one hip, wormed a hand between them and gripped Cas in a loose circle of fingers, letting Cas' own movement fuck him through them; Dean was just providing him with a bit of friction. 

“Yay internet,” Dean groaned, licked his lips, started to regret his non-directional policy.

“The wealth of information it offers rivals all the great collections of knowledge on earth and in the heavens,” Cas informed him, husky, sweaty, guttural. “This is starting to feel really urgent,” he told Dean. “Please feel free to take your lust out on me, you've been very patient and I want you all over me.”

“Urgent is an understatement,” Dean wheezed, “thanks for letting me maul you in advance.” Then Dean tightened his grip on Cas' cock and Cas half howled with it. “We're picking up the pace again,” he told the angel in his lap. “I'm about to bowl you onto your back and put your knees over my shoulders, is that okay with you?”

“Yes,” Cas sobbed, “anything at this point, anything,” he begged.

“Here we go,” and Dean was as good as his word: he rolled them to the side then pushed himself up over Cas, all without disengaging. He pushed Cas' legs up, leaned in and let them fall over his shoulders, and he reached up and gripped Cas's shoulders. Cas started at him with watering blue eyes and Dean winked at him, bowed his head and went as he pleased now. Cas wailed, became all slapping, pulling hands, pleas in Enochian and English and loud, boisterous sobbing. When Cas came it stunned him to silence, but his hands found Dean's hair and pulled hard enough to make Dean fear for his scalp. Dean wasn't but a moment after and his own releases were heralded with a choked-off shout and loud, harsh panting. He lifted his face to look at Cas. Cas was flushed and teary and sweaty; his bangs were stuck to his forehead. He caught Dean looking at him and stared back. He didn't look traumatized in any other way but having had a good lay. Dean tried a half-smile and got one in return. 

They'd had sex and they had both survived.

**

After that, Dean no longer slept alone. Cas, left to his own devices, finally found a reason to settle into his human existence and express himself. He turned out to be a surprising hedonist. 

Every day, Cas would wake up while Dean was sitting on the bed putting on his boots. And Cas would be warm and naked or mostly naked; he would pull at Dean's shirt, he would try to coax Dean into lying with him just a little longer. But Dean would just grin and lean over to kiss him. 

Today was no exception.

“Get up, don't sleep all day,” Dean said, kissing his forehead, then his cheek. “And maybe you could shave today? You're getting really shaggy, tickles my nose to kiss you.”

“Maybe,” Cas said, rolling away for a yawn and a stretch, then he looked back at Dean. “What if I never shaved again?”

“I'd be sleeping with the wild man of Borneo soon, I guess,” Dean said with a grin, then he got up, leaned over and smacked Cas on the ass before going out the door to make them all breakfast.

Castiel was content and secure and human enough to decide how to live his life at last. And it had only taken a little over two months of sharing a bed with Dean Winchester.

**

Cas' mornings started around ten thirty. At ten thirty he'd get up and go to shower, he would come back to the room and, depending on what was on the agenda for the day, he would either put on jeans or shapeless, flowing hippy pants. That was not his term, but Dean's, but Cas didn't mind. They were so comfortable and non-confining. Next, he would admit, he surrendered to the plaid, and if Dean's shirt from yesterday was in the basket and not too dirty, he'd put it on over the t-shirt Dean had worn yesterday, if it was not too dirty or stinky. Then, if he was wearing his hippy pants he would not wear shoes. He would go downstairs and find Sam, barely awake and reading the paper in sections, setting aside the sections he'd already read for Cas to read when he came down. Dean, who had been up probably about three hours before either he or Sam, would be in the kitchen making breakfast. Cas would divert there first, to lean on Dean's back and ask for scrambled eggs, then gather his very large cup of coffee and join Sam at the war table until breakfast was served.

Breakfast would be served with a lot of grousing from Dean about how he and Sam were horrible slackers or something else just as colorful, and Cas would happily eat his breakfast and study Dean and all the nuances of Dean until Dean told him to cut it out, it was creepy.

Life was good for Castiel.

“You didn't shave,” Dean said, chewing on toast. “It takes you this long to get up, how is it you don't have time to shave?”

Cas was sitting in a chair with his knees pulled up and lipping the lip of his coffee mug. He was shaggy and unrepentant and he didn't feel the need to explain it.

“Will you let me trim your bangs?” Dean asked and sighed when Cas shook his head no.

“He's going through a phase,” Sam said with a grin. “It's okay, Mom, you have to let him be himself.”

“Fuck you,” Dean said and showed Sam the appropriate hand gesture to accompany the words. “Why don't you let me trim your bangs all the way to the back of your neck? How about that, Sammy boy? At least you're not sliding into the sixties like Cas.” Cas gave Sam the peace sign.

Lunch was late because breakfast was late. Cas put on shoes so he could go out to the warehouse and see what Dean was doing and remind him that it was two thirty and maybe Dean should come make him lunch. Cas had spent his time between breakfast and lunch in the archives rubbing his face on ancient texts. He loved ancient texts and enchanted objects and cursed trinkets and occasional holy relics. He loved them a lot. He wanted to spend all his time which he didn't spend with Dean and Sam with the archives. He'd made a nest in his favorite archive room with pillows and blankets, then Sam had come in with more and some chairs and made Cas a fort. He loved the fort. Dean said Cas was aging backwards from a bajillion to five. Cas liked being five.

His dinner was late as well, usually around seven thirty. Sometimes Dean would plan and they'd have a 'fancy' meal, sometimes Dean just made single pot meals like stew or chili, sometimes Dean just made them a sandwich; but as long as Dean made it, Cas would love it. Then there was TV watching, or shop talk about monsters, always about monsters. And Cas' favorite part of the night was of course getting in bed and sometimes not even going to sleep right away.

**

“I don't know why you made me come on this hunt,” Cas told him, looking bored. “I'm not even sure these jeans are clean.”

“What does that matter to you, you always wear my yesterday's shirts,” Dean said. “You don't give a rat's ass about clean clothes, you don't even aim when you throw them at the laundry basket, and god forbid you actually wash a load.”

Sam shook his head no. “He doesn't wash a load ever again, we can't just go buying new washing machines every time, Dean.”

“I made you come on the hunt because you can use the exercise, Mahatma Ghandi,” Dean told him. “We think it's a crocotta. It's been hanging out in these abandoned apartments and sucking on squatters. It's fish in a barrel, but you still need the exercise; quit griping, geez.”

There were many buildings to go through, many floors to check, many abandoned units to tromp through. Splitting up was probably a better option, but no one seemed to want to go their own way so they stayed in a loose group, sometimes covering different floors of the same building.

“When I get home, I'm going to take a very long bath with all that lavender I found at the farmer's market,” Cas said, trailing along behind Dean. “I'll make the sheets smell good.”

“Good for you, Joan Baez,” Dean said, poking his head into another room, his gun drawn.

“You guys seen anything?” Sam called from down the hall. 

“No, are we sure we're in the right place?” Dean shouted back.

“When it goeth well with the righteous, the city rejoiceth; and when the wicked perish, there is shouting,” Cas said. “You guys are doing this backwards; you're shouting first and perishing the thing after, it's got to know we're coming.”

“Proverbs, Chapter 11, Verse 10: you're not even trying hard, Cas,” Dean said, deciding this unit was clear and turning to head back to the door. 

“I thought I'd cut you some slack seeing as how you're being all smooth and paramilitary right now,” Cas informed him, stepping to let Dean by and then follow him out of the unit. “Don't worry, though, being macho makes you hot,” Cas assured him.

“Thanks, Arlo Guthrie, I'll remember that,” Dean snorted.

“I love Arlo Guthrie's music,” Cas sighed.

**

The time between Dean and Cas walking into the hall and Dean and Cas scrabbling for cover was just seconds. The crocotta struck Dean across the face with a piece of debris from the hallway and Dean half spun, dropped his gun and knocked back into Cas. The creature wasn't stupid: it dove for Dean's gun, grabbing it up and running down the walkway toward the stairs. Dean pushed up and took off after it on foot, calling a warning to Sam. The creature paused at the top of the stairs, looking down and raising the gun to fire. Sam, at the foot of the stairs, returned the fire. Dean threw himself to the wall as the creature raised the gun and took a crazy shot at him, then it decided to run and Dean chased it down the walkway on the opposite side. Sam came running up the stairs the. By this time Dean had tackled it and knocked it to the ground. Sam waded into the Dean vs crocotta wrestling match and extracted his brother and shot the crocotta a couple of times at close range, which pretty much declared Dean, but really Sam, winner of the match. Dean cursed it, kicked it, picked up his beloved pearl-handled gun and looked around, to ask Cas if he had observed closely how a crocotta was killed. But Cas was still over on the other walkway. Cas was sitting in a strange sort of half-leaning position against the wall.

“Cas?” Dean said, pushing past Sam, walking that way. “Cas?” Dean said again, starting to jog. “ _Cas?_ ” Dean screamed, breaking into a run. He could hear Sam running behind him. He ignored the jar to his knees when he fell to them beside Cas. Dean heard Sam make a noise behind him, an awful, disbelieving noise. “No, come on, CPR,” Dean said, pulling Cas away from the wall, lying him out flat. “Sammy, _come on_ ,” Dean said. He pushed the bloody shirt open, dragged off his own shirt and balled it up to cover the wound. Sam got on his knees beside him, took over holding the shirt against Cas' chest. Dean felt for a pulse, then pried Cas' mouth open, took a breath and covered Cas' mouth with his own, forced air into his lungs. Then he pulled up, pushed Sam's hands away, crossed his palms over Cas' heart, heedless of the blood, and pressed and counted and pressed and counted. He did it over and over again with hardly a breath in between; he would do it forever if necessary. But Sam put a hand on his shoulder, pushed him back and Dean looked up at him, tense and anxious.

“Stop,” Sam said brokenly. “Just stop, Dean, he's gone.”

“No, Sammy,” Dean said, breathless, shaking, “we have to ...”

“Dean, stop,” Sam said again. “Please, just stop, Dean. Just stop.” And when Dean tried to lean over Cas again Sam pushed him away again. Dean slapped Sam's hand away then, stared at him.

“We're not stopping,” he snarled and shoved Sam hard in the shoulders and Sam reached up and grabbed his wrists and held him there, Cas' body between them. He just held Dean's wrists as tight as he could and Dean bunched his fingers into Sam's shirt and held on, too. They sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, until Sam slowly let Dean go and Dean slid his hands down Sam's shirt and then over onto Cas' body. Sam got up slowly, took a few steps back.

“No, no, why?” Dean said, shaking Cas' body. “Why, why, no, not like this, Cas,” Dean half-screamed at him. “You don't go out like this.” And Dean rocked then, back and forth on his knees, then leaned and pushed his forehead against Cas' chest, and he shook Cas again. “This is not how you die, this is the way I die, this is not supposed to be you.” 

How had this happened? This wasn't supposed to happen. He lifted his face, he traced back through his mind. The crocotta hitting him in the face; then he'd dropped his gun. The crocotta had picked up his gun and as he'd chased it toward the stairs, the crocotta had gotten off that one wild shot at him.

Oh, so, the crocotta killed Cas _(but really he killed Cas, because he was careless and stupid)_. With Dean's own gun, no less. 

“I really fucked up this time, Cas.” he looked down at the blue eyes staring blankly up at him. “I guess it just figures. I mean you were pretty much my only shot at a happy ending, and I should have known better. ” He reached up then, wiped his eyes hard across his sleeve. “You listen to me, angel, and you listen good. First, you go and you kick the everloving shit out of Metatron and you kick him again, for me. Then you find your grace and all the other angel graces and you put them back where they belong so people have something to pray for again, because even if I know the truth, that's no reason to take away anyone else's faith. And you stay up there, you hear me? You stay up there and wait on me and when I get there, you better fucking find me, you feathered dick, because I will come looking for you.” He shook Cas' body again. “I just wish you'd stayed here longer, you know. But I'm gonna be fine, I'm gonna be all right, so don't worry about me. I got Sammy, we'll do okay. I'm going to miss you so fucking much,” and he stopped then, he knew Sam was standing there watching. He took a few deep breaths. “It's gonna be a bitch sleeping without you. And all your shit is all over my room.” He wiped at his eyes again. He could say it was his fault, but Cas probably already knew that, and Sam would protest.

“Dean?” he heard Sam say, quite and uncertain. “Dean, we should get out of here.” 

**

Getting Cas down to the Impala and into the backseat was mostly a blur for Dean. They drove home in complete silence and, once there, carrying Cas into the bunker was another trial. Sam hesitantly pointed out that there was a cold storage unit in the warehouse and they should take Cas there until they could decide what they were going to do with the body. Dean nodded numbly, and they took Cas out to the unit, made sure it would switch on and put him on a lower shelf. Dean stood there staring down at him and Sam shifted uncomfortably. 

“Let's find something to cover him up,” Sam suggested.

“His blanket,” Dean said automatically, then shook himself, looked at Sam. “He has this one blanket that he likes, I should get that, I'll go get that,” and Dean pushed his way out and of the unit and Sam went to wait outside until he came back. Dean came back after a few minutes. He went inside and spread the blanket out over Cas. “I don't know why he likes this thing,” Dean said. “It's faded puke green and it's covered with those damn little fuzz pills,” Dean got it all straightened out. “I can't do this Sam, I can't leave him in here all night by himself, I can't,” Dean said, not looking at his brother.

“I'll get you a coat and blanket, too, then,” Sam said and left to do that. When he returned he also brought Dean a chair. Sam stood by while Dean pulled on his coat and a pair of gloves he'd stuffed in the pocket. He took the blanket and sat it on the chair. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder then, and they both stood there silently. Then Sam wiped at his eyes after a while and put his arm around Dean's shoulder instead of just on it and hugged Dean against him for a minute and let him go; then he touched Cas on the shoulder for a minute. Then Sam let himself out of the unit and Dean and Cas were alone.

**

“Okay, God, I'm waiting. You miracled him back to life before, this should be no exception, right? I'm going to wait here all night if I have to, and when I get a cold and die of pneumonia it will be the biggest fucking irony ever in the history of irony. Joke is on you, Winchester. I'll find out we were always the butt of your jokes. I'm okay with that if you make with the Cas coming back to life now, please.” And Dean waited standing there for a while. 

“Cas wasn't supposed to die,” Dean said. “See, Cas didn't go through all of that and finally get to where he was happy just to die. That wasn't the agenda, there is no fucking way that was the agenda. He was happy, I was making him happy, you saw that, right? He was doing what he wanted to do and sure, I didn't like some of it, but he didn't care and he'd just laugh at me and tell me to shut up. Cas did that, my Cas did that, and we were going to live here and then maybe we were going to find Sam a girl so he'd get married and make some babies we could steal from him. We were going to have a great big family and fuck, I would have even given in and let him have a cat eventually. Did you see him being happy and picking the peppers off pizza slices and putting his foot into my crotch under the table because he knew I wouldn't say anything in front of Sam? He would read to me,” and Dean's voice faltered then. “Stupid shit or ancient shit I didn't understand from those moldy old books in the archive but I just loved to hear him read. He was so into it, he was so good at it and he loved what he was doing. He loved that, you saw that, right? I mean at this point, it's not about me, fuck me. It's about his happy and why can't he have it? Why can't you let him have all of that, he was happy here, that's all I ever wanted for him and why now? Why does it go away now? I will live the rest of my life now seeing shit and thinking 'Cas would have loved that'. That's my punishment isn't it? Seeing all the shit I can't appreciate and knowing he could and then somehow I could because he could. He made me happy. I was finally happy. I don't get why I don't get to have any happy,” and Dean sat hard then, on the blanket on the chair. “Please, you got to bring him back, just one more time, and I'll take good care of him this time and I'll protect him and I will never let him go on a hunt ever again. You got to do me this one solid, man, I'm begging you. I'm flat-out begging you, please.” He watched Cas lie there, unmoving. “Please,” he said again. He moved the chair very close and he laid his head on Cas' shoulder. And he stayed there all night like he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by ValiantParadox


	5. To former joys recurring ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up dead to familiar faces.

He startled himself awake, sat up and blinked in the dim light from the hall, it seemed he'd left the door open a bit. Dean's sleeping form was beside him and he lay back down, pressed up against Dean's back and threw an arm over his waist. What a horrible nightmare; but Dean was warm, and it lulled him back to sleep almost immediately. He woke in the morning to Dean kissing his forehead.

“Wakey, wakey,” Dean told him, “you wanted to go to that music festival whatnot today, and if we're gonna get a good spot for your blanket, we need to go early.”

Cas stretched; he loved to stretch, and he got his entire body in on the act and then he curled up, and Dean just laughed at him, then flopped on top of him. 

“We could stay home; I could spread your blanket out on the bed and put some music on the stereo and we could have our own festival,” Dean said, “one with no bugs or chances of rain.”

Cas wiggled out from under him then, and Dean turned on his back, looking up at him, grinning. “You are oh, so tempting,” Cas told him, dragging fingertips through his hair, leaning down to kiss him.

“I know,” Dean purred before Cas silenced him with his mouth. His happiest days were all spent with Dean.

And that is when it hit him where he was and what this must be, because Castiel was still in thought an angel and angels knew how this worked. As if fleeing the sudden clarity, Dream Dean was gone from beneath him and Cas sat up in the bed, looking around the room he shared with Dean in the bunker. It would make sense that this would be his heaven. All he had to do was suspend his belief, just a little, and he could relive every happy moment with Dean over and over for eternity. He got out of the bed, dressed and went downstairs. He walked through the war room, into the living room, and he sat in Dean's big leather chair and he pulled his feet up into it and he hugged his knees. He felt blank and raw and empty; he didn't want memories. What was he to do? When he was an angel he had power and station and divinity; he was not insurmountable but he was diligent and true to purpose. As a human he'd been little more than a hopeless romantic and cataloger of old books. But Dean had loved him and that had, in its own way, meant more to him than what had come before. It had meant more because he had achieved it through his own doings and not in his role as servant of heaven. 

He could journey to the garden, confront Metatron, and then what? Tell him his story? Ask to be thrown back down to earth? His vessel was dead now, and so was he: well and truly dead. If there were going to be divine intervention this time, he was sure it would have already happened. The passage of time here was different, but he felt that this had already gone on too long for it to be anything other than what it was: his heaven. He wasn't going to do this without Dean. He wasn't going to let Dean be left behind and unhappy while Cas replayed all their moments together. Dean didn't have that to fall back on; Dean had only Sam now, and probably more guilt than any human could bare. It wasn't his fault: very little of what Dean thought was his fault was ever truly his fault. But he would take Cas' death on as his own and Cas knew he would and felt absolutely helpless. He should be friendly with the feeling by now, he'd grown accustomed to it; but if Dean would be alone, then Cas would be alone until Dean could be with him. Solitude was purity, and he wasn't sure he should even be in heaven. The rules were always changing on him just when he thought he caught on.

But solitude had different ideas for Cas.

There came a knock on the door and Cas stared over at it with consternation. He was deliberately not having memories, so why anyone would be knocking on the door was beyond him. But the door burst open and a masked figure in a cape jumped through it and stood there, looking at Cas with his hands on his hips. Cas knew it was a man because the man's tights left little doubt of his gender. Cas frowned at him and tried to will him away, but it didn't seem to be working all that well. The masked man lifted his arm and pointed a finger dramatically in Cas' direction and Cas leaned back in his chair a bit before he realized he was doing it.

“Hola! You do not know me, but in time you will come to be in awe of me. You are the ex-angel, Castiel, and I am Mal Culo. Bobby Singer sent me,” he finished. “I've come to take you to him so he can give you the scoop on our plan; also, the automatic systems up here still work and they announced your arrival. Since we need you and we don't want MetaMan to get his hands on you before we do, we gotta move you on out of your heaven and somewhere a little more incognito.”

“Why is your name Bad Ass in Spanish?” Cas asked, because there were so many confusing points at this time he decided to go with the easiest one first.

“All in good time, Angel Man. Now, come on, we have to get out of here.” And Mal Culo opened the door and went through it, and, after a moment's hesitation, Castiel followed.

 

**

Sam was throwing seeds over the dirt. Dean just stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched him. Sam emptied the little packet, wadded it up and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then glanced over at his brother and gave a half-smile. They were in the woods bordering a large cattle pasture. They had scoped it out earlier and dug in shifts over two days before being able to sneak in a wooden coffin from the bunker's warehouse and finally bury Cas in it. The decision not to burn him had been Dean's, but Sam agreed on principle since Cas seemed to come back to life randomly and, were that to happen again, he might need the body. But the longer it went on, the more Sam had his doubts. 

“Wildflower seeds,” Sam told Dean, “he would probably like them.” 

Dean nodded without comment and took a deep breath and looked around. “He liked cows so, flowers and cows. You hear that, Cas, you're getting flowers and cows. He was getting really hippy, you know, he would have liked this whole clandestine wood burial shit.” Dean rubbed his face. “He would have thought it was funny. Is it funny, Cas? You laughing at us up there?”

Sam looked up, wondering if indeed Cas could hear prayers again. Dean turned away then, started heading through the woods toward the Impala. Sam trotted to catch up and they walked side by side in silence. Dean turned on the radio for the drive home; it was always a subtle hint that he didn't want to talk, and once they got back to the bunker Dean went straight to his room and closed the door. Sam sat for a while in the living room and half-heartedly watched TV because he didn't want Dean to have to try and hide the sounds of grief coming from his room.

**

Cas came through the door into what looked like a bar. He'd seen a number of bars in his travels with the Winchesters and so he could spot the characteristics of one right away. The masked man whom he had followed looked around with a satisfied nod and said, “Welcome to Casa de Ash.” Then he took off his mask and cape and headed over to the bar. “Okay, you park here. I got to go get a few people now that I got you here. Wanna brewski while you wait?” Mal Culo held up a bright silver can. Cas walked over to the bar uncertainly.

“Yes, thank you. Where are you going, Mal Culo? I should tell you that I am probably not a very popular figure here now; then again, there isn't anyone here aside from Metatron who would know me, among the heavenly host, I mean,” Cas took the beer being offered and popped the top, holding it in one hand and with the forefinger of that hand as Dean had taught him.

“First off, Mal Culo is my stage name, but because I like you, you can call me Ash,” Ash said, opening his own beer for the road, “and second off, Metatron knowing you is kinda a problem.” Then Ash sat a laptop up on the bar. “Okay, Heaven has all these little automated systems. When the angel dudes up here took the swan dive, they didn't switch anything off, so they're all still running. I started tapping into some of the minor systems. Metatron might be an angel, but he's only one angel and there are hundreds of these systems so it takes him a while to monitor through them. The arrival system red-flagged you, but since I was able to tap into it, I got you unflagged; but you're still showing up on the guest list. See, there is this group of us that doesn't really like what went down; we'd kinda prefer it if the other angels came back to run the show again. Metatron and all these souls just waiting to be siphoned up seems like a bad mix.” Ash paused to chug most of his beer.

“I speak from experience when I say it is a temptation almost too good to pass up,” Cas said glumly.

“I'm not saying the dude ever would, but if he did there isn't anyone up here to stop him. So we've formed a super-hero team.” Ash stuck his chest out. “I'm Dr. Bad Ass and you, my friend, are the nerdy braniac who knows this place inside and out.”

“I am?” Cas said, baffled.

Ash gave him a little smile, finished his beer. “Just wait here, I'll be right back.” Then Ash went through a swinging door behind the bar. Cas sat there and drank his beer quietly. He was almost through when Ash came back through the door with a couple of others. One was a very familiar figure. He slid off the bar stool as Bobby Singer rounded the bar and drew him into a hug. It was so good to see someone he knew. Bobby pushed him back then, held him at arms' length.

“Damn, son, I'm glad to see you but I hate to see you, too, you didn't last long,” Bobby sighed. The man behind Bobby was a black man who seemed to be about Bobby's age.

“This is an angel?” the man said and shook his head.

“Castiel, this is Rufus, Rufus this is Castiel,” Bobby released Cas' shoulders then with a fond slap on the arm. “He's a good friend, great fighter and can probably help us figure out what we need to do up here.”

As they talked, Ash went though the swinging door again. Rufus went behind the bar and sat out glasses and a bottle of amber liquid with a blue label. He poured two of the glasses, then looked at Cas and got a third and poured it, too. 

“So, Cas, how are the boys?” Bobby asked, picking up his own glass. Cas pulled his glass near, looked over at Bobby with a sad smile. 

“Truthfully, at this moment I don't know,” he sighed. “But before this? They seemed … happy. They have a home now: a bunker they found through their grandfather. Dean is very attached to it,” Cas smiled a little,” he likes having a home.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, “I bet. And Sam, too.”

The door swung open again and Ash came through with more people he knew. Jo reached him first, throwing her arms around his neck, and he smiled, bent his head for her and awkwardly patted her back. Her mother, Ellen, waited her turn for a hug.

“Cas!” Jo said happily, rubbing her cheek against his. “I know everyone will be a downer about saying it's good to see you, but it is.” She released him then, moved back to let Ellen get in a quick one armed hug around Cas' neck as well.

“What happened?” Ellen said, because she was never one to worry about what others thought.

“Oh,” Cas started, “I don't remember everything but I'm pretty sure I was shot, in the chest,” he said. For some reason this made Jo frown and hug him around the neck again, tightly. “It's all right,” he consoled her, “it was very quick; I felt nothing, it was painless,” he continued, as if this made his death any better. Jo tightened her hug even further for another moment before releasing him.

“A hunt?” Bobby said because Ellen started it.

“Yes,” Cas said, bowing his head. “Nothing more dramatic than that. I think about it now, and considering everything, my death was far more merciful as a human than it ever should have been as an angel.”

Ash had slipped out again while no one was watching, and now he pushed the door open and a woman followed him in. Cas knew her immediately. He dropped his eyes and stood quietly.

Pamela came over to stand by Bobby and looked Cas up and down frankly. 

“That's not the Castiel I remember,” she said and Cas looked up at her slowly then. 

“Yeah, this is his meat suit,” Bobby said. “I guess maybe we should've waited around for him to introduce himself and not tried to force the issue.”

“I did warn you,” Cas said quietly, “I do feel regret for your injury; but you were prying where no human had a right to pry. If you had heeded the warning ...” Cas trailed off.

“So that's my apology?” Pamela said, leaning against the bar. Cas glanced at Bobby, then back to the floor.

“We're all here,” Ash said loudly, “and we can't all be together too long, it gets suspicious on the angel radar.”

“Ash is right,” Bobby said, “we can put this aside for later. Right now, we need to go over what we know and what we're going to do.”

“Okay, so we got the angel, now we need to stash him,” Ash said. 

**

Dean stood leaning against the back of the Impala as Sam went inside to pay and grab some bottled water or whatever it was Sam wanted. Dean didn't want anything; there wasn't much he really thought about nowadays other than hunting. Sam was wheedling to take a break, head back to the bunker, do a few days of downtime. Downtime was the last thing Dean needed. On second thought, he did want something: he wanted some beer. He came into the tiny store and got a 40oz PBR and set it on the counter next to Sam's bottled water and granola bars. Sam looked at him but made no comment and paid for it anyways. Dean got a brown bag to disguise that he was going to be drinking and driving and Sam followed him back to the car, jaw tight.

“It's not enough to get drunk enough to pass out every night in the motel room?” Sam said brusquely, getting into the car.

Dean didn't answer him, just got on the highway to drink and drive. They were heading toward a rumor like always. Just something to pass the time some more.

“Do you really think that Cas would ...” Sam started and Dean cut him off.

“Oh no the fuck you don't, because you just better not. Don't use him to try and make me better, whatever the fuck better is; don't use him because I can say for a fucking fact he was sick and goddamn tired of being used,” Dean snarled.

Sam made a frustrated gesture, shoved himself back in the seat but didn't say any more, and Dean preferred it that way.

**

“This is ingenious,” Cas said as Ash drew yet another sigil on another door in some confused person's heaven. “I mean, I understand how you are using them, but I don't know why I never thought of this.”

“Maybe because you were an angel and you didn't have to do this?” Bobby said behind him.

“This is true,” Cas said with a tilt of his head and a half-smile at Bobby. “While on earth as a human I learned that all my previous assumptions as an angel were true. Doing things by hand is tedious.”

Ellen gave a bark of laughter behind Bobby and shook her head. “I tell you one thing it did for you, Cas,” she confided. “It sure got that stick out of your ass.”

“Funny, Dean said the same thing,” Cas murmured, following Ash through the door. The 'Away Team' as Ash put it (a reference Cas not only knew but appreciated) consisted of Castiel himself, Bobby, Ellen and Ash. The others had been left back onboard the starship Roadhouse. Cas found he was rather enjoying Ash's endless pop-culture references; in a way, it reminded him of Dean. And he missed Dean, and Sam, but mostly, if he was truthful, Dean. And he worried about him, on almost every breath he took; because he had glimpsed Dean's self-destructive ways when he was an angel. Then it was much easier to be concerned yet detached; to help when he could by soothing the occasional nightmare or offering counseling when Dean would accept it; as a human his help wasn't nearly so objective or useful, but he still tried. He was so caught up in missing Dean that he didn't notice the walk at first, but then he looked up at the house and came to a stop. Everyone else walked a little past him, then stopped to look back at him.

“I can't be here,” Cas said quietly without further explanation.

“Why not,” Bobby said, “after all, you knew this guy; hell, you wore him.”

“It didn't end well for him,” Cas said softly, studying his feet. “If this is where you were thinking of 'stashing' me, I think I can tell you he won't agree.”

“How about you just let us do the talking?” Ellen said. “This is bigger picture stuff, I'm sure we can reason with him.”

“I know all about bigger pictures,” Cas snapped, then sighed. “I'm sorry, I'm just very uneasy to be here. I don't think he'll want to see me.”

“If there's gonna be fisticuffs, I think I'll wait here on the walk. It's not my style to be assaulted by a man in front of his own home; usually heaven is full of peaceful types,” Ash said.

Bobby patted Cas' arm. “Well, just give it a go, would ya? It's not like we're doing this lightly.”

“What the Bobster is trying to say,” Ash jumped in, “is we think we can mask your signature here because you and he have the same wavelengths. It's the whole vessel thing. I mean if the dude wants, we can send him on vacation to someone else's heaven — like Galileo, that is one serious heaven.”

“I often wandered through Emanuel Swedenborg's heaven when I had errands,” Cas said with conspiratorial glee. “His theory of the scriptures being the immediate word of God made for some particularly grand hijinks ...” Then Cas noticed Bobby and Ellen looking at him, and he went back to studying his feet.

Ellen came over, took Cas' elbow and hustled him along and up the stairs and to the front door. He stood there with great trepidation as Bobby knocked. 

“It's okay, we're right here with you,” Ellen said. 

“I'm aware of that,” Cas whispered, “and though I might or might not be partially responsible for what happened with you and Jo, I am fully responsible for ruining this man's life, and if I were him I would punch me in the face — and that's just for starters.”

The door opened and Castiel stood there. Well, not really Castiel but the man responsible for the way everyone perceived Castiel. And he looked at Bobby first, looking confused, and then at Cas and Ellen. and he seemed to freeze in place.

“This was not my idea,” Cas started, but then he stopped, because Jimmy Novak punched him square in the face.

**

Sam brought the spirit board into the war room and laid it on the table.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Dean said, looking up from the magazine he holding in his lap. He wasn't actually looking at it; he was sitting at the war table with his feet up and the magazine in his lap in an effort to look normal. In reality. he was staring at some unidentified spot on the far wall, and had been for the past thirty minutes. In the thirty minutes he'd been sitting there, an empty six pack had also littered the floor around him. 

“Why not?” Sam said. “I mean. hell, we can at least try. Even if we don't get through to him. there has got to be someone who knows someone who knows someone.” Sam made an offhanded gesture and shrugged. “Maybe even make sure he went?” Sam said hesitantly.

“Of course he went, he's not a fucking idiot,” Dean said, staring at the board like he wanted to light it on fire with his mind control. “If that's so reliable, why haven't we been using it all the time. I mean that one time in the hospital after the wreck and when I met the reaper, granted, it came in handy. But it seems to me we could have used it to suss out a lot of other shit since then.”

“We don't normally talk to spirits, Dean,” Sam told him. “We usually just dig up their remains and burn them.”

“Then how do you know any of them are even going to talk to us?” Dean countered. “If I was a spirit, I would be the last son of a bitch I'd want to talk to.”

“I'm not even a spirit and it's getting that way,” Sam said. “You know, the answer to this is not to burn yourself out or get killed on a hunt because you're running on fumes and alcohol. Another thing? I'm tired of not being able to mention Cas and what Cas might have thought or wanted. He was my friend, Dean, and I miss him, too. So yeah, I don't think Cas would be happy with your current outlook on life and I think he would be concerned, like I am. So throw it back at me, do whatever it is you're gonna do, Dean, because I want you to know my two cents before you drive off the cliff, okay?”

“Are you done, Oprah?” Dean grumbled, and looked away.

“For now,” Sam said. He sat down at the table, pulled the board out of the box and slid it over near Dean. “You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can do it on my own.”

Dean sat up, leaned over, put his fingers on the planchette and looked skyward. “Hey, Cas, if you can hear me, I got this stupid plastic thing here, say something; and just to make sure you're you, what color underwear am I wearing?”

Sam sagged back in his chair with a sigh.

**

Ellen gripped Cas' arm and hauled him to his feet just in time for Jimmy to punch him again, and down he went again, almost pulling Ellen down on top of him.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Now, hang on there a minute.” Bobby grabbed Jimmy from behind and pulled him back, got between him and Cas, who was now sitting up with Ellen's help and sporting a bloody nose. Just like Cas to get a bloody nose in heaven.

“Who are you people, why is he here?” Jimmy demanded, hovering in his doorway now, fists still clenched. “This is the last thing I wanted to see. At least I could maintain the illusion; at least I was convincing myself this was real.”

“It's a bitch, I get it,” Bobby said, “but beating on Cas ain't gonna solve it. I don't know how much you know about the situation going on up here; but the point is, we need your help. All I'm asking is for you to hear us out.”

Ellen had pulled Cas back to his feet, helped him back down the stairs to stand by Ash. Ash pulled his bandana out of his back pocket and Ellen took it to wipe Cas' nose.

“No,” Jimmy said instantly, “whatever it is, it's too much, and what's more insulting? He still looks like _me_. I am dead and here because of my willingness to help him; what more can he possibly do to me? Get out of here, all of you.”

“Please,” Ellen said, coming back up a step. “You do know that all the angels have fallen; that heaven runs on automatic with only one angel in charge; a rather unstable individual, I'd say.”

Jimmy looked confused for a moment, then nodded toward Cas. “If that's true, then why is he here?”

“He fell, too,” Bobby said, “and then the idjit went and got himself killed and now he's back and just like us; a human soul.”

“What I told you before,” Cas suddenly said, “it's all still true, Jimmy Novak.”

“Oh, is that right? What you told me before? You convinced me you were a righteous cause. You went on an on about faith and devout doctrine and you led me on thinking you were some sort of answer to all mankind's problems if only I was willing to let you use my body for your purpose. Holy purpose: that's how you lured me in, you used my love of God, you used my faith and my devotion and you skinned me with it. You stripped away everything that was me; you even came after my daughter. My daughter, Castiel, you were willing to take her and do all the things you did to me, maybe even worse. All for the sake of saving the world. Well, the world got saved, and I notice that I'm not there. And you want to know what else? This might have worked except I couldn't buy into it right away. I came home and to my house and was met by my wife and daughter; I expected it to be my wife and daughter. But you know what, I _knew_ it wasn't, I knew it was just a memory.” Jimmy looked at Bobby then, at Ellen. “You seem pretty self-aware, too. So maybe it isn't just me, but there is still some piece of you clinging to me that makes this all surreal. I have tried to scrub it away; I've tried to cut it out, and I can't. The truth is I will never be free, and you lied to my face when you told me about paradise. How is it you even got to come back here? You should get the hell out of my paradise.”

And Castiel vanished and everyone jumped. 

**

Back at the Roadhouse, Jo decided she would tend bar like she used to. The two customers she had were pretty unoriginal: one only wanted Johnny Walker Blue Label and the other one only wanted beer. 

“Does anyone know how to do that thing Ash does so we could invite someone over?” Pamela asked. “Someone musically inclined, preferably.”

“I wish,” Jo said, “I'd have people over all the time.” She and Pamela shared a grin and nose wrinkle. Rufus rolled his eyes and drank. 

“It's nice to know Heaven didn't change you much,” Jo said to him, leaning now on the bar close to Pamela. “Some of us have to be loveable old grumps forever; Bobby can't have a monopoly on that.”

“I don't know why I had to stay behind; I'm going to give them a piece of my mind when they get back. My people skills are just as good at the next guy's; and since this is so important, we don't negotiate with the guy, we tie him up in his basement. It's not like we can kill him again.” Rufus poured himself another shot.

“So this Jimmy guy is the guy Cas possessed when he first came to earth?” Jo said. “The way I understand it, angels have to have permission; so this guy said yes. I don't get why he wouldn't help now.”

“I'd pay real money to be there,” Pamela said, finishing off her beer. “The odds are Castiel wasn't any better to him than he was to me.” She smiled when Jo brought her another. “He could have said, oh, hey, you might not want to look at me, I will melt your eyes out of your skull. That would have been a more useful heads up thea just 'turn back, human, you have been warned'. He is so full of his own shit.”

Jo sighed, pushed her hair back behind one ear and just leaned there for a moment. “I know you got a beef with him and I get it; but he really helped us and I'm sure he's one reason that Dean and Sam stopped the end of the world and came out on the other side alive. I mean, that's gotta mean something, give him some points or something.”

“Maybe,” Pamela said, “just barely.” Then she stopped and tilted her head to the side for a moment, turned on her bar stool and looked behind her.

“What?” Rufus said, turning to look with her, scanning the area.

“Being dead didn't really cut me off,” Pamela said. “I thought it would, but there are still things to be picked up; just don't need a board anymore, it's like I am live-wired into the spirit world now.”

“You can still talk to spirits,” Rufus said. Satisfied that there wasn't any looming doom, he turned back to his glass.

“And the occasional earthbound psychic, if they are strong enough. Every now and again Ash asks me to tune into things downstairs. That's one boy that has this all figured out.” Pamela shook her head.

“Yeah, Ash had everything figured out,” Jo said. “Still didn't save him.”

There was some more silence and companionable drinking.

“Okay, guys,” Pamela said turning her head again, “someone just told me a Winchester is using a board.”

**

“Balls!” Bobby Singer really thought he'd given this all up: all this ego wrangling. “What the hell just happened?”

Ash raised his hand. “Uh, Mr. Novak here, being the generator for this heaven, sets its parameters and he just parametered Cas out.”

“Brilliant, Ash, thanks,” Bobby said with a not friendly smile. “Think you can go find him before Metatron does?”

Ash saluted Bobby. “Can do, boss!” Then Ash shrugged at Ellen and turned to trot off down the sidewalk.

Bobby exchanged a look with Ellen. She just made a subtle eyebrow lift and shrug of her shoulders, then he turned back to the man who had just banished Castiel from his heaven (and probably rightfully so) and sighed. 

“Okay, now that he's out of the way, maybe we can talk? You, me and her?” He nodded toward Ellen.

“I don't know what you want to talk about,” Jimmy said. “What can we do about it? And who knows, maybe the human race is better off without the so called guidance of angels? Maybe I'm a cautionary tale. Who are you people anyway?”

“My name is Bobby Singer, this is Ellen Harvelle. We're friends of Sam and Dean Winchester, I think you know them,” Bobby said.

“Sam and Dean?” Jimmy said, and he actually looked like he relaxed a little. “I do know them, they helped save my family. They're ... not here, are they?”

“No,” Ellen said, “and we want to keep it that way a while, so that's why we need your help.”

Jimmy took a deep breath then. “What can we possibly do to help? What can we possibly even affect up here? I don't even think there is a God,” he gave a little half laugh, “or maybe not one who cares. It's really sad to me that I was raised to be devout and this is how it turns out: angels lie and God is gone.”

“Being disillusioned over and over is a bitch, I get it,” Bobby said, “but what does it say about the human race as a whole? It seems to me no matter what slap in the face we get, we still try to do right.”

“He's right,” Ellen said, “you're judging an entire race by the actions of one. Granted, maybe he lied to you; maybe he didn't. The end result is that your wife and daughter are still alive on a world that isn't reduced to an ember because that angel you despise did what he said he was going to do: he helped save the world. Things that matter come with a price; you had to pay more than others, so did I, do did Bobby, but in the end, people were saved because of us.”

“And because of Cas,” Bobby added.

Jimmy looked between them; he looked a bit uncomfortable and he looked away. “So what you're saying,” he finally said, “is I should suck it up, I'm not the only one who suffered. I know that's true. But you know, it doesn't invalidate my pain, or yours, or anyone's.” He turned back to look at them. “What is it you're trying to do exactly?”

“For starters? Hide Cas from Metatron,” Bobby said. “We need to babystep this thing, Jimmy, will you help us?”

Jimmy balled his fists, then released them and took a deep breath. “Fine, he can stay here, but don't expect me to interact with him.”

Bobby let go a breath and Ellen came up and patted Jimmy on the arm. “See?” she said to him, “that's why you're special, Jimmy, being a hero is in your blood.”

**

Cas felt the anger and resentment in the push. He stood dazed and alone on the grounds of a small country fair. People milled about him, doing as they would do in life at such an event. The memory holder wasn't evident, and probably would not be able to tell Castiel where he was in the first place.

Being lost in Heaven was so very odd. He searched his pockets for chalk, but all he came up with was the memory of his iPod. He slowly drew it out of his jacket pocket and held it in his hand. Of course he had died with it on his person, he cherished it. He took it everywhere. He found his ear buds in the same pocket, wadded up and tangled, and he stood there patiently untangling them before putting the plug in the top and one ear bud in his right ear. He carefully wheeled through his selections. All the music he liked, all the music he liked because of Dean, all the music he liked because of Sam; and yes, the music Dean didn't like but he liked anyways. He pressed the play button after the highlight settled on Bonnie Tyler. Dean only pretended not to like her, Cas knew, and he identified with Total Eclipse of the Heart. But when he called Dean Bright Eyes, Dean had almost imploded, so he felt he shouldn't mention that he always thought of Dean when he listened to this song. 

He missed Dean: actively, physically, and he almost threw the ipod away from him because this was hurting so much, but instead he pressed it against his chest and held it there and listened. He truly would be damned if he denied even a moment of his memories of Sam and Dean; it was because of them that Castiel existed as more than an intention of Heaven. And Castiel liked who he was, who he had become, and what he might have been in the future under the love and tutelage of Dean Winchester; and he would never, ever deny it.

He jumped when someone touched his elbow, and turned quickly to find Ash there.

“Dude, Bonnie Tyler is one foxy lady, and when she gets up here I'm totally looking her up,” Ash said. “In the meantime, hombre, let's get you moving again. I got to take you back through the Roadhouse, that's my center point. And besides, some interesting things are going on there right now.”

**

“Dean,” Sam said as the planchette suddenly shot across the board and out from under Dean's fingers. That got Dean's attention. He sat up straight in the chair and looked across at Sam. The bunker was a fortress, well warded, but somehow, something had just gotten through. Sam lifted his hand cautiously and Dean hissed a warning, but Sam put his fingers on the planchette anyways. After a moment, it wheeled around and started to move, Sam had a time keeping up with it. Sam called out letters in quick succession, and Dean ran to get a pad and pen.

“W-I-N-C-H-E-S-T-E-R-S,” Sam spelled out, then there was a pause. “P-L-A-Y-I-N-G-W-I-T-H S-P-I-R-I-T B-O-A-R-D-S,” another pause, “N-A-U-G-H-T-Y” a pause “J-E-S-S-E W-A-S-N-T-F-O-R-E-V-E-R.”

“Pamela?” Dean blurted.

The planchette shot over to _yes_.

“How are you doing this?” Sam asked, “I thought this place was warded. It's the safest place on earth.”

“I'm not on earth,” the board spelled out. “I'm upstairs. Organizing revolution.”

“Revolution?” Dean said. “Against Metatron? You kicked so much ass here, should be a cinch for you upstairs. What's the plan?”

“Have you seen Cas?” Sam asked because he knew Dean wouldn't and Dean looked over at him, mouth pulling into a grim line.

“Revolution yes, Cas yes,” the board said. Sam watched Dean unwind and sag back against the chair. No point in asking if Cas was fine: he was dead and in Heaven, so fine might not apply. “This is hard,” Sam said, “do we have another way to communicate? This bunker is full of stuff; maybe a spirit box like on those ghost hunter shows?” Sam suggested.

“Mouthpiece,” the board said and then it stopped, no matter how many questions Sam and Dean directed at the ceiling.

**

“Talk about timing,” Jo said as Ash and Cas suddenly appeared through the swinging door. “Why are you guys back anyways? Why isn't Cas stowed?”

“Mr. Novak decided Costello here needed to get the hell out of dodge,” Ash shrugged. “But we're going back, just had to re-route us through the home office. Don't worry, I'm sure Ellen can talk him into letting you stay there, Angel Man; might just take a while.”

“I can go back with you,” Rufus said, “and settle it right now. What is that slacker Singer doing? If he was using his head we'd have this done by now.”

“It's the Winchesters,” Pamela said, sitting across the bar now with a spirit board and planchette. “Feels like Sam,” she continued.

Cas half-scrambled over to where she was, peering intently down at the board, then up to her. “What are they saying?” he demanded. “Tell them ...”

“Put a sock in it,” Pamela said. “I'm still not over being pissed at you. Basically, they're surprised I'm getting through to them in the bunker,” she said, then sighed and shook her head. “And yes, they asked about you.”

“I don't wish you any animosity or ill will,” Cas said, “that was never my intent. Can you please tell Dean …”

“No,” Pamela said, and Cas straightened up, took a deep breath and pushed away from the table. “Not with the board,” she continued, “it's a pain. I'm going to send over a psychic, so when she gets there, then yes, we'll tell Dean things.” Cas turned back to her, clearly looking surprised. 

“In the meantime we gotta go hole up,” Ash waved at him. “Then we gotta start picking your brain about the inner workings of the Heavenly Empire; so we can find a weak spot and send out X-Wings.”

“Thank you,” Cas said quietly, then turned to follow Ash back around the bar. 

“Yeah, don't,” Pamela said, “I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for them, and they asked, and that's the only reason I'm doing it.”

“Then I thank you for them,” Cas said as he pushed through the door.

**

“I'm not doing this for you,” Jimmy Novak said to him as they stood on the front porch of his house. “I'm doing it for them,” and he looked over at Bobby and Ellen. 

Such irony, Cas thought, and the fact that he was so very unwanted didn't have any place there. He wasn't doing this for himself; he was doing it for Heaven.

Jimmy turned then and went into the house. Cas looked at Bobby and Ellen, and they both made encouraging motions like he should follow.

“But what about you?” Cas said, not wanting to be in a house alone with all this tangible guilt. “Is one of you going to stay here as well?” he asked, tentatively, hopefully.

“Ash is going to stay with you,” Ellen said, “for a while; you need to tell him everything you know about how this place works.”

“When you hop heavens you make subtle disturbances in the Force,” Ash said.

“Ah, so wait, wait, that other reference about X-Wing fighters,” Cas said with a smile, “I get it now, the other Star that isn't Trek. Star Wars.” Cas felt pleased with himself.

Ellen suddenly smiled at him, and he wasn't sure why; she turned down the walk and Bobby moved to follow her.

“Probably best if you don't try to talk to Jimmy or anything,” Bobby said. “We'll let you know as soon as we know exactly what's going on.”

“Back at the Roadhouse, the woman Pamela spoke to Sam and Dean through a spirit board,” Cas said. “Warn her to be careful not to attract attention that can be followed to Sam and Dean.”

“I gotta take them home, but I'll be back,” Ash said. “Why don't you go ahead and map out the Death Star for us while I'm gone.”

“I can try,” Cas returned. “as much as I can remember.” Then he watched them leave and slowly turned to the doorway behind him. He went in slowly, hesitantly and shut the door. It was very quiet and he recognized the interior immediately. He knew that he knew this mostly through Jimmy's own memories, the ones that were woven into his vessel. There were always residual traces of the rightful owner that never went away. Amelia's smile, Claire's laugh: Cas understood these now, much better than he did before; he felt this man's loss keenly. But he ccould't share with him, he couldn't go to Jimmy and say _I understand so much more now than I did then. I had to leave Dean behind and that is the same pain you feel._ Jimmy would not appreciate it; he would not want to commiserate with the thing that delivered him all that pain to begin with. 

Castiel was sorry and he didn't know how to convey that to Jimmy in a way that would be the least bit comforting or offer any closure, so he refrained. He went to the kitchen, checking before he just walked in to make sure it was empty, and then went to the drawer where Amelia kept the pad she used for her grocery list. He took it out, along with her pencil, and he went to the kitchen table to sit down. Then he concentrated very hard and he began to write. He did it rapidly with few pauses, trying to get it all down while holding the memory in his head, and he sketched, little pictures in the margins and the header, and he stopped after a bit to organize his pages a bit better. Then he ached for the archive and he ached for Dean and he leaned his forehead against the table for a bit before he steeled himself to continue. He was not aware of the passage of time, and when he heard footsteps into the kitchen he assumed it was Ash; but when he looked up, it was Jimmy.

He said nothing, dropped his eyes back to his work, noting he was almost out of paper. His memories of this house suggested there was an office, and paper could be found there. He wondered if Jimmy was going to say anything, or punch him again; it wasn't like Cas would stop him. But they were both silent, just sharing this little bit of space. Cas found it extremely uncomfortable; he wondered if Jimmy felt the same.

“What did you do on earth that got you killed?” Jimmy asked suddenly, and Cas jerked, looked up at him again. 

“I was hunting with the Winchesters,” he said quietly.

“Demons?” Jimmy pressed.

“Monsters, mostly,” Cas continued. “The demons seem disorganized; the talk is there is a battle for dominance now that the King of Hell is incapacitated. I am not sure of all the details. I was killed by a random monster you haven't even heard of, in a very undignified way.” Cas studied the floor between them. “It seems I'd only just got the knack of being mortal, and then I was back here.”

“So all the stuff they said about you saving the world, that's true?” Jimmy asked, his own voice getting quieter.

“I participated in the events that saved the world, if you must know, but most of your gratitude should go to the Winchesters,” Cas said. “But I did what I could.”

“You're going to find this strange, but I'm glad there is at least one thing you didn't lie to me about,” Jimmy said, finally moving into the room. “How can we have it so wrong? The scriptures, the prayers, are they all wasted?”

“No,” Castiel said, surprised. “There are special places here for prayers: highly prized, heavily guarded, cherished.” Cas gave him a small smile. “Your misfortune was to be meet with the warrior class. We are as varied and complex as the human race: no two angels are alike. Most of the angels here are dedicated to humanity, through the will of our Father. He commanded we love you and we obey; you know the punishment for that disobedience. Do not lose faith in your scriptures; they can carry you, Jimmy.”

“You're so different then what I remember,” Jimmy said then, “it's not like you're the same angel.”

“I'm not,” Cas replied. “I'm broken and disheveled and a bad example. I have lived the road of good intentions; in all honesty, I'm glad you were gone from me before you saw how low I could actually stoop. I'm sorry, Jimmy. I don't know if that will mean anything, and I know it won't help anything, but I am.”

Jimmy stood there for the longest time and then he finally said. “I believe you. I don't know that I forgive you, but I believe you.” And he left Cas there.

And well, there was that at least. 

Cas went back to his task.

**

She dropped her second cup of coffee right outside the ticket stand at the Greyhound station. She stared at it sadly before turning to trudge off and get on a bus. _An overnight coach_ of all things, and to go to Kansas, like she'd ever wanted to go to Kansas. She was here on an _exchange_ and she liked California and this was all just so distressing, and every time the voice in her head spoke she dropped things. She was really starting to hate this third eye or sixth sense or whatever her grandmother cursed her with, it was really very inconvenient and sort of rude.

She chose a seat near the back of the bus, out of the way, and made sure to store her wheelie bag securely in the overhead bin. She sat in her seat, keeping to herself, and tookout a book she'd been trying to read and put on her glasses and wished for another cup of coffee. But still, it was a long drive and probably best not to have to visit the toiloet here to much; it probably wasn't all that pleasant.

 _Good girl, you're pretty resourceful_ , the voice said, and she dropped her book and it bounced off her knees and over onto the floor at her feet. She leaned over to see it and noted the floor was rather disgusting. She picked the book up with her forefinger and thumb and sat it on the seat next to her so she could go through her purse and find some tissues. _When you get to Kansas we're going to have to get creative about how to get you to the bunker_ , the voice interrupted again. So she dropped her purse on the floor.

This was really starting to get out of hand, and a bit annoying, and she felt she should say something about it instead of just doing what the voice told her to do; so she picked her purse up off the floor and sat it on the seat next to her and then wondered what she was going to do for tissues now.

**

“Well it's about damn time,” Rufus said when Bobby and Ellen came back through the swinging door into the Roadhouse. “Did you get it straightened out? Sure took your time.”

“We don't bulldoze people in heaven, Rufus,” Bobby said with a snort. “We gotta get cooperation because physical force isn't much of a threat when you can just wish someone out of your heaven.”

“It's taken care of, Rufus,” Ellen said, walking over to where Jo and Pamela were seated with the spirit board between them. “What's going on here?”

“Communing with the Winchesters,” Pamela said, “until the spirit board talking got old; it takes a lot out of you. I found another psychic; I'm sending her to them now. We'll have an open line of communication with our headquarters on Earth.” And she winked at Bobby.

“Damn, girl,” Bobby murmured, “you can still psychic things?”

“I didn't ring them, they rang me. Okay, well, they rang the angel; Sam is damn loud,” Pamela said. “I just picked up on it. Probably because the angel was around me and Sam is known to me. Anyway, it's working, and we can use all the help we can get.”

“Cas didn't tell you when Ash brought him back?” Jo said. “He seemed pretty excited about it, kept wanting Pamela to talk to Dean.”

“Didn't mention it,” Ellen said, “but anyways, for now, we need to be going back home. Bill is probably wondering where we are.”

“Same for Karen, better get back. Ash, we need to set a time for the next rendezvous,” Bobby said.

“Let me check my appointment calendar,” Ash said, fetching his laptop. “It seems I'm free all millennium, what works for you?”

“It's gonna take that girl about three days on a bus to get to Kansas,” Pamela volunteered, “so how about three days? That gives the blips time to clear off the radar.”

Ash gave her a thumbs-up and tapped a few keys on his laptop. “Okay, reminder set, let's get people back where they belong.” And Ash escorted everyone home until it was just he and the Roadhouse again. 

**

Small town America was just as the name suggested, small town America. Dean was loitering in the local WalMart near the automotive section because he really didn't have much to do today. They were on hunt hiatus until Sammy found a way to better commune with the spirits. Eventually he wandered over to the menswear section to see what the fall line up of plaid was going to be like this year; and it was just like it was every other year, he couldn't tell them apart, so it really didn't matter. Oh wait, he didn't remember seeing this particular shade of brown and green before. He started to look for his size. He found Sam's size, surprisingly enough, and was just about to ask a WalMart employee to go to the back and look for his size, when this girl with huge glasses and a red bobbed hairdo came rushing up to him and stopped and straightened herself up a little and stared at him. Dean watched her, waited on her to say something, and when she didn't, he decided to go on the plaid quest again and turned to walk away.

“Wait!” she suddenly cried behind him and then went silent again. So he stopped, looked at her, waited, and when she didn't say anything else, he turned away.

“No!” she cried behind him and he stopped once more and slowly turned back to her.

“Look, I'm flattered, okay, and you're pretty cute, but I'm not looking, sorry.” And he smiled what he thought was a good 'you're cute, kid, now fuck off' smile at her and assumed it was over.

“My name is Mary Patricia!” she said in a flustered rush with a flustered British accent, and turned red in her cheeks. “I'm told you're Dean Winchester and I'm to be a mouthpiece.” And after she said it she looked horrified at herself and covered her mouth and turned even redder.

“Wait, what?” Dean looked around then, took her by the elbow and steered her out of the main aisle into men's underwear. She looked shocked at his hand on her arm, then doubly shocked to be in the men's underwear aisle. “Say that again,” Dean said. “How do you know that name?”

“You're going to think I'm mad,” she whimpered.

“Trust me, lady, I don't think you're mad, you mean crazy, right? I don't think that. Just tell me who told you that name?” Dean said, trying to be reassuring instead of impatient. He wasn't sure it was working. She had covered her face now and she parted her fingers to look at him through the slits.

“Do you know a woman named Pamela Barnes? If you don't, I'm terribly sorry to have bothered you and is there some man here more attractive that you? She told me you were the prettiest man in the menswear section, and there was you and a very thin boy who looked to be about fifteen, and a man in a motorized chair ... so.” Mary Patricia stuttered to a halt.

“Pamela Barnes sent you. This is what she meant, this was the mouthpiece idea,” Dean said. “Yeah, okay, I'm Dean Winchester, and yes, I knew her and is she talking to you right now?”

Mary Patricia nodded slowly.

“Okay, listen good, what the hell, Pamela? You sent us a British kid? You do know that getting people mixed up with us is not a good thing, right? You are a fucking case in point. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?” Dean snarled.

Mary Patricia looked at him with wide, watering hazel eyes and moved her lips in an unhappy way, but didn't say anything.

“Well?” Dean stressed.

“She's laughing at you,” Mary Patricia said like she wanted to sink through the floor. “She says nobody gets to be exempt. She says she misses your ... I'm not going to say that,” the girl seemed to say to herself.

“Great,” Dean growled, “just fucking outstanding, come on.” And he took Mary Patricia's hand and marched her out of the WalMart to his big, black, American boat car and made her get in and drove them away.


	6. And the stinginess suited our new credence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the only Angel in Heaven meets a genius and gets suspicious.

Ash was greeted at the door by Jimmy Novak, who informed him Cas was in the kitchen. Ash went there and was greeted by the spectacle of paper from one end of the room to the other, and diagrams taped to the walls, fridge and oven front.

“Whoa, occupy some dude's kitchen,” Ash said, looking around. “You don't mess around, Angel Man.”

“I'm assuming that's my superhero name,” Cas said, not looking up. “I only like it slightly better than Nerdy Brainiac.”

“Glad to have the approval. You, my friend have been a busy, busy bee.” Ash picked up some of the papers.

“Be careful; they are organized by reverence, importance, divinity and scripture,” Cas said. “It's not a self explanatory system so I don't want them shuffled.” Ash put the paper down, raised his hands.

“This is Angel Man territory, Mal Culo is capiche,” Ash said. “So, you wanna make some of this stuff portable for me, so I can take it back to the Mal Culo lair and read up and then write a program to implement it?” 

“Hmm, let me organize a few stacks by biblical hierarchy for you,” Cas said, getting up and then wandering from stack to stack. He picked some up and carefully criss-crossed them. “When you lay them out, the top of the stack is the last pile, and don't mix them up. Some of these Enochian words shouldn't really touch other Enochian words. It could, as you call it, cause a great disturbance in the Force.”

Ash took the stack of papers gingerly, held them away from his body. “Okay, then, I will now retreat to my fortress of solitude and try not to blow myself up. Good work, we'll be in touch,” Ash said. 

**

Cas went with him to open the door for him. He waved at Ash as he went down the sidewalk and disappeared out of sight. He ducked back into the house and shut the door quietly, then he went back to the kitchen. The missing piles of information in his otherwise pristine fortress of knowledge made him twitchy. They really shouldn't; after all Dean made huge messes whenever he visited in the archive. Cas would always just know he would need to add an extra hour or two to his schedule for re-straightening everything Dean disrupted just by walking in the room, and maybe feeling Cas up a little, and kissing him some, and there was that one time, under the table ... he squeezed his eyes shut. No, stop thinking of that. He beat himself in the forehead with the pencil for a moment, then opened his eyes and pulled his stack of paper close again.

**

“Okay, so, Mary,” Sam started.

“Mary Patricia,” Mary Patricia corrected him.

“Mary Patricia,” Sam corrected, “you have a direct link with spirits that doesn't require a spirit board or other talisman?”

“I wish I was informed enough to answer that the way it should be answered,” she told Sam earnestly, “but the truth of it is I don't have the first clue what you're asking me.”

Sam sucked the inside of his cheek and looked over at Dean, who was leaning in the living room doorway. Dean shrugged elaborately.

“Don't look at me, dude,” he told his younger brother, “she assaulted me in the WalMart.”

“I didn't,” Mary Patricia said, cheeks once again rising in color, “he dragged me into the men's underwear aisle; it was very disorienting, then he kidnapped me even though I went willingly. You don't just put people in cars and drive away with them.”

“But you just said you went willingly,” Sam said. “So, did you come willingly or not?”

“Listen here,” Mary Patricia said, setting her jaw, “I've had enough of this third degree. Is this any way to treat someone who's ridden in a bus for three whole days and stalked a man through a very large store and delivered a cryptic message that may or may not have been an actual message from beyond the grave but more likely some psychotic breakdown? I think you should be afraid of me and make me some coffee.”

“I thought Brits liked tea,” Dean snorted.

“I thought American men were all monosyllabic beer-swilling neanderthals,” Mary Patricia said, “but I was trying to be polite.”

“Whoa, let's get the Queen her coffee,” Dean said, pushing off the door frame and heading for the kitchen. Sam was smiling but looking at the table, he waited until Dean was gone.

“He doesn't mean to be a jerk but he does,” Sam said, gave a little shrug and tilt of his head. “Okay, so you were told to come here by Pamela Barnes.”

“Yes, and yes, and yes already, and I wish she'd tell me what I'm supposed to tell you so I can go,” and Mary Patricia looked at the ceiling. “She's being very quiet, not too recently she wouldn't shut up.” She looked down at Sam again. “I didn't come here to consort with American men, I'm here to study American filmmaking. I'm not sure I'm not being mind-controlled by this Pamela Barnes; this is madness, that is what it is. Don't you have one of those oujia board things? Why can't you use that?”

Sam propped his elbow on the table and sort of covered his mouth with his hand to keep from grinning.

“You're not subtle,” Mary Patricia tutted at him, “you're a big flashing neon 'I want to laugh at you' sign. And your brother is the man my mum warned me about, all hands and lip and no consideration. Pamela Barnes says they have stashed Cas at Jimmy Novak's house and that Jimmy Novak punched him twice according to Bobby Singer, and she says that if I don't tell Dean he has a nice ass she'll haunt me forever, all right? You have a nice ass, too. She doesn't want you to feel left out.”

“Okay, I believe you can talk to the dead,” Sam said, eyes a bit wide.

**

“Everyone's path to the garden is different,” Cas told them. “Everyone will see some representation of their life; the key is to follow each clue to the source, and there you'll find the garden.”

They were assembled at the Roadhouse again. Cas' handwritten guide to Heaven was placed carefully around them on various tables, and each had taken a turn trying to read and understand what was written there.

“So we can't go as a team,” Bobby muttered, still looking at the paper on the bar before him. “We all have to make our way to the nerve center alone? That doesn't sit well.”

“Not so fast,” Ash said, leaning on the bar, “I have a theory that another person can always journey alongside you; sort of like the heavenly buddy system. It's not exactly the soulmate gig, but it should work; that's in theory.”

“He's right,” Cas said, “Sam and Dean traveled together on one of the many times they were here. I would not exactly call them soulmates.”

“So we split up into teams of two?” Rufus said. “How do we keep track of each other while we go; and here is another thing, what are we gonna do when we get there? Don't get me wrong, I am all for wading in there and fighting, but see, I feel the lack of artillery here. This Metatron is an angel, right? Feels to me we'll need some big guns.”

“There is an armory,” Cas said. “When I was captain of the garrison I had full access. If it is still in existence, it housed many angel blades and assorted spell ingredients. I know some spells we could use, perhaps make portable versions; like little bombs, that could be thrown by hand. Dean was always pretty ingenious in figuring which spells he could toss by hand.” Cas gave a small fleeting smile.

“So how do we get to it?” Ellen asked. 

“I believe Mal Culo and myself should be able to access the armory,” Cas said. “I have the co-ordinates ...”

“Already got them plugged in,” Ash said, patting the laptop, “it's calculating a trajectory as we speak. I designed this heaven-hopping program to save on chalk; it will take us the most direct route.”

“If we're going in two by two, we're an odd man out,” Rufus said, “you know, the team-ups being Ellen and Jo, and Pamela and Ash, and me and the old guy. What about him?” he jerked his thumb in Cas' direction.

“I go alone, of course,” Cas said. “I have the best chance of doing it alone as any of you.”

Bobby made a humphing noise, then sighed. “I don't like it, but I guess it makes sense.”

Cas looked at the assembled group. Human souls, some whose human lives he had touched, others he didn't even know. He smiled at them, ducked his head a moment, then looked up again. 

“I just look at you, all of you, and I feel grateful,” he said. “Humans are so forgiving and accepting, maybe more so than they should be; sometimes I think you forget this is my _home_. And that touches me in a way few things have, because that means you consider me one of you. That's a rare quality; a beautiful trait. After I fell, Dean didn't give up on me; he doesn't give up on anyone; he taught me how to be human, and I just want to do him proud.”

Jo ran over to hug him then; she was very huggy with him for some reason, and he patted her back awkwardly.

“Wow, that almost earned you points,” Pamela said cryptically and moved away to the bar.

“There are points?” Cas said confused.

“Not to be a downer or anything, but maybe we might wanna thing about actually doing something with our time together,” Rufus snorted. “Instead of standing around getting in touch with our feelings.”

“Ok so the armory run, first priority,” Bobby said, “tonight?”

Cas glanced at Ash, Ash nodded. “Doable,” he said and gave a thumbs-up. “So, Angel Man and I hit the armory and bring the weapons back here to stash, then I skedaddle him back over to Jimmy's place. That man has good taste in after-dinner mints, there is a big dish right by the door.”

Cas nodded in agreement. “Butter mints,” he said with a smile, eyebrow lift and little nod, “Jimmy prefers the Old Time Candy brand.”

“Fascinating,” Bobby said, “but why don't you tell us how we're gonna know your raid is a success?”

“See, that is where Angel Man and his mumbo jumbo ways come in,” Ash said. He did a dramatic sweeping of his arms in Cas' direction.

Cas was mouthing the words 'mumbo jumbo' when suddenly everyone was looking at him again, and he just stared back at them because one thing Castiel had always been very good at was how to stare at people. Bobby craned his head forward, squinted at Cas and tilted his head. Cas squinted back, then it struck him that Ash was talking about the communication sigils. 

“There is a sigil that when worn upon the skin can be used for rudimentary communication, mostly feeling and impressions and vague visuals,” Cas said. “Interpretation is up to the wearer, but I suppose an overall consensus could be reached or a designated thought processor could be elected, that was Ash's idea,” and Cas made a sweeping one-armed gesture at Ash, and Ash preened.

“So are you two gonna do that every time you want someone to pat you on the back?” Ellen asked.

“It's for group morale,” Ash said, “when one of you comes up with a brilliant idea, we'll do it to you.”

“I got a direct line to the boys on the ground,” Pamela said, and Ash made a grand two-armed gesture in her direction and she grinned. “I kinda like it,” she told the assembly. Rufus started to say something but Bobby raised a hand and shook his head and Rufus just snorted instead.

“Okay, Cas, we gonna paint these sigils on or what?” he asked, sounding tired when technically you couldn't be tired in heaven. “Can we get on with it?” he walked over to the bar, rolling up his sleeve.

“Angel Man you are the official Enochian calligrapher,” Ash told him, stepping around the bar and putting on it a small jar of black paint and a paint brush. Cas came over and sat beside Bobby to get started.

**

They had put her up in the spare room (not Cas' old room, that was kept shut tight and Sam knew better than to even mention it) and briefed her on the bathroom schedule. In the middle of the night, she knocked loudly on Sam's door and he opened it just as Dean opened his door down the hall.

“So, Ash and Cas are going to raid the armory and Pamela says Cas says there is a reference in the archives here about dreaming of Jacob's Ladder. He says it might prove useful, but he's not sure.” She was without her glasses so she leaned very close to Sam. “Cas says it could be used like dream root, maybe?”

“That's Genesis,” Dean said from down the hall. “A lot of verses in Chapter 28. So wait, he thinks we can dream our own Jacob's Ladder?”

“He is telling Pamela he thinks combining it with a Enochian ritual might open a channel to allow a living consciousness at least temporary access to Heaven,” Mary Patricia stopped a moment. “You're trying to get into Heaven, they are raiding an armory in Heaven? What sort of drug-induced dementia am I involved in? What did you slip in my coffee?” 

“You mean the voices in your head thing is normal compared to this?” Dean asked with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

“Pamela says that Castiel says please don't be smarmy to the person whom you are communicating through.” Mary Patricia lifted her nose in Dean's direction. Dean just stared at her for a moment before retreating back into his room and shutting the door. She turned back to Sam and Sam gave a little sigh.

“Dean and Cas are ... complicated,” he offered. She seemed puzzled, then realization dawned. She turned to look at the door Dean shut just moments ago. 

“This must be hard,” she said quietly. Sam gave a half-shrug. “So let's talk about this Jacob's Ladder thing,” he said, stepping back so she could come into his room. “Ask Cas where in the archives I'm supposed to find this ritual.”

Mary Patricia came into Sam's room, all eager eyes and touchy hands. She handled the notes and books on his desk, she looked at his posters on the wall, then looked at him as if to judge the relevance of man to poster, then she sat on the side of his bed. She closed her eyes for a moment, frowned slightly, the corner of her mouth twitched and she gave a little jump, almost as if she'd been holding something she would have dropped it. 

“He's worried about Dean,” she said first, opening her eyes to look at Sam. “Pamela is sorry for him, which is odd? Pamela feels she should not feel sorry for him, but she does. She wants to say it's Dean who has her sympathy; but you can't really lie in this,” Mary Patricia tapped her temple, “she's telling me to shut up and not tell you these things; these things are between her and me. She says I'm an amateur.” Mary Patricia snorted in irritation. Sam couldn't help but smile. “Ah, Castiel says to tell you it's in Fort Scully room, and that he knows it's Fort Sully but Dean never remembered that and called it Scully so he took to calling it Scully.” She stopped. “He's very chatty when he's worried,” she supplied.

Sam half smiled. The 'Fort Sully' room was actually room 12B; but it was also the room where Sam had constructed the blanket/chair/pillow fort; it was the room Cas hung out in the most, returning time and again to his favorite tomes and artifacts. Mary Patricia was right; this was hard.

“Okay, I got it, tell him I'm going to memorize it and we'll be ready if he needs us,” Sam said. “Is this uh, line of communication secure enough to give us the entire plan?”

“Bobby Singer says they are making it up as they go along,” Mary Patricia said. “He says that you and Dean are to just sit tight because they can't be killed any deader than they already are, and you have to make babies or something.” She grinned when Sam flushed a bit.

“I don't like sitting tight and neither will Dean,” Sam gave an explosive sigh. “I feel so useless. Is there anything we can do to help?”

Mary Patricia watched him silent, a look of sympathy plain on her face; she tilted her head to one side for a moment, then she tilted it back the other way. “He says you can pray. He says you're good at it,” she said after a moment.

“Bobby said that?” Sam asked askance and Mary Patricia shook her head.

“Castiel,” Mary Patricia said, glanced toward the door and back at Sam. “He says to tell Dean he is going to kick the everloving shit out of Metatron and then again, for Dean.”

Sam started. Dean had said that to Cas' body as it lay sprawled on the walkway of an abandoned apartment building. Cas could still hear prayers.

**

He was a bear in honey. He was a bee in flowers. He was a wallower in all the things he had had to leave behind so long ago and now he was here, himself, alone in paradise. Well, not precisely alone. There were all the human souls, but they kept to their little heavenly corrals and they were monitored very serenely by celestial software, so there was very little to worry about. There were a few minor hums and dings, and every now and again he made himself scroll through the entire system; but it was sporadic. But he just so happened to be mulling around the control center drinking the finest coffee that the finest master roaster of the finest coffee plantation could dream up when he took notice of one of the hums and dings. There seemed to be an unusual concentration of souls gathered in one place. Now heaven-hopping wasn't as uncommon as one might think; some souls were natural wanderers; but usually they would snap back in place within a day or two with no harm done. There was that one obnoxious little renegade who darted here and there seemingly at will; there were even notes about him in the logs all in neat, angelic script, but so far he'd done nothing but road trip around heaven. His patterns were random; that is, until recently. Now a number of small heavens were visited directly. This sort of recording usually fell off into the archives after a couple of days with no one there to physically monitor it, but now that it had been noticed, the sole angel in heaven decided to check it out. 

**

He'd just come back from a little run in which he circumnavigated the globe when Marv was there again, waiting on his doorstep. Oh he wished he wasn't raised to be so very well-mannered at times, but he dived right into it; the faster he got on with it, the faster it could be over.

“There you are, Marv, we've wondered where you've been off to. It's not the same here at Bletchhey without you lurking about. What's on your mind today?” Alan Turning was a gay genius while he lived and he was an even more fabulous one now that he was dead. What sort of name was Marv anyway? Much like his unwanted guest; very American. Marv showed up as he pleased, without so much as a call to say he was on the way. He lingered for what seemed like days, roaming the hall of Bletchley Park as if he was privy to all her secrets. He watched the lads in sailor suits and gleaming white tennis gear and cricket whites parade the halls as if he summoned them himself; he was generally a thorn in Alan's side; but dear old mum made it a point to make sure he was nothing if not polite.

“I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I would just drop by and see how the bombe was today,” Marv said, clasping his hands behind his back, rocking back on his heels. “Maybe hang around for tea or something, get some opinions?”

“Smashing,” Alan muttered, leading him into the house. “I've just had a little run, so I need to freshen up. I'll have my boy show you to the front parlor. Alfonso, would you be so kind as to escort our guest,” Alan said to a very clean-cut blond and blue-eyed boy in shining white who seemed to appear out of nowhere. “He'll be taking tea with us, you'll need to inform Mrs. Grant. Marv, if you'll excuse me for a bit? I'm sure you'll find Alfonso's company delightful, I know we all do.” Then Alan made good his escape for the moment. What a ghastly man; it was so tedious trying to be accommodating. All he wanted to do was hear story after story, as if Alan had nothing better to do with his time than relive every boring, wretched moment of his existence. He briefly toyed with hiring a biographer to write it all down. Then maybe Marv, with a manuscript in hand, would elect to leave him alone. He took his time freshening up to give him enough time to steel himself to deal with Marv and his endless, personal, nosy questions. He made his way to the front parlor just as the tea service was being wheeled in and situated himself across from Marv in a glorious French-style mahogany wing chair with carved violins adorning it and charming blue upholstery. He crossed his legs and gave his expertly practiced full attention to Marv. It was expertly practiced because it was actually fake and he tended to wander off in his own mindscape while Marv prattled on. Really, like most Americans, Marv was blunt and overbearing; too personal by far in a false, friendly way. Alan was well-versed in manipulation and conniving; not only was he a homosexual, he worked in military intelligence: it all wentall hand in hand, really. Marv handled every tiny sandwich before making his selection, successfully ruining Alan's appetite for them. 

“What is it you needed an opinion on?” Alan finally prompted. “I have a meeting this evening and I can't be late, you know how it is; so if you'd be so kind? I'm very pleased you value my opinions so, but really, Marv, I'm sure there are many others out there just dying to be thrown your way. You forget old man, I'm British; we're born with our shirts stuffed,” and he dipped his head and prompted Marv with his eyebrows, as if that ever done any good. Marv chewed meticulously as if the tiny cucumber sandwich might go off in his mouth at any moment; the tea, however, he had no problem sloshing down and then signaling for more. Alan could feel the tiny stirrings of a tension headache just behind his eyes.

“I was wondering if you wanted to see some very interesting computing equipment,” Marv said, “and maybe tell me if you think it is functioning in a correct manner. After all, the man who proposed the notion of the Universal Machine is surely a man who would like to see it in use.”

Oh, he really was insufferable. This Marv with his ratty cardigan and his poorly-trimmed beard and his air of superiority which he had no way of backing up: even for an American, he was a bit much.

“You know, this is what I admire about the British,” Marv said. “So easy to talk to, so polite. I will have you know I went to see an American, Howard Hughes,” he gestured with his teacup and shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Entirely too full of himself; do you know, he ordered me out of his heaven? Just like that. Not at all like you: sensible, intelligent, good taste,” Marv gave him a half-smile and Alan forced himself to return it. 

“We really haven't gotten to any narrative around '52,” Marv started, and Alan cleared his throat loudly.

“I do so hate to be a bore, Marv,” Alan said, “but I simply must go; we'll have to do this some other time.”

“Oh,” Marv said, disappointed. “Well I would really welcome your opinion on the machines. I want to know if the congregation of souls I keep seeing in the logs is actual, or a ghost on the radar as it were. That many souls in one heaven is a bit unprecedented.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Alan said, and Marv gave a little smile, a little shrug.

“Sometimes I forget not to talk shop,” Marv said, “don't worry, you won't remember it after I leave this room. Good talking to you, Alan,” and Marv stood to leave. Alan got to his feet, offered his hand. What Alan really wanted was to forget Marv the moment he left and never to think of him again.

**

Castiel hovered by Pamela until she made a dismissive noise. “That's all for tonight, got to let the girl sleep,” she told him. Cas nodded, he supposed that was true enough. Ash was sitting at the bar with a stack of newspapers. He still liked to read every edition of every daily paper he could get his hands on; it kept him well abreast of the affairs of the earth. He snitched them out of the angel's lounge and afterwards gave them to Eugene Turnbill, who had died when he was seven but had a large budgie aviary in his heaven. Cas came over to stand beside him and Ash glanced up at him.

“Ready to hit the armory, Angel Man?” Ash asked, setting his paper aside. 

“I don't know if 'ready' is the proper term, but yes, we should go now while we have momentum.” Cas fingered one of the papers on the bar; then followed Ash as they went through the door. “I have to ask you something, in all your tinkering with the systems of Heaven, have you not found a means of communicating with someone on earth?”

“Don't like middle-manning it? Can't say I blame you. Pamela is one hot potato, but she is all thorny when you rub her wrong,” Ash commiserated. They passed through a number of nondescript heavens. Mostly meadows or mountains or flowering fields, houses on the hill, lakes and the occasional ocean. It wasn't until they were in the foyer of a very lavish mansion that they paused. Ash looked around, a bit confused. “Whoa, bit of a detour I wasn't expecting.” They turned in unison at the sound of someone on the stairs. Cas' eyebrows rose when he recognized the figure coming down the steps. He was wearing a robe and expensive looking pajamas, but the beard and the eyes gave him away.

“Chuck,” Cas said surprised. He was even more surprised when a few very lovely and very scantily-clad ladies gathered up on the landing, looking down at them, forlorn.

“Castiel,” Chuck said, and he still had the same wavery uncertainty in his voice that he'd carried in his life on earth. Chuck was, as a prophet, the living embodiment of the word of God, and after he'd completed his task, his reward was, of course, to be taken bodily to heaven. And given a lavish mansion by the looks of it, and many wives. “It's good to see you, it's been a long time since I've laid eyes on someone I knew on earth,” then Chuck trailed off. looking at Ash appreciating his wives. Cas leaned over and whispered quietly into Ash's ear, “Don't be rude, it's unseemly to stare so openly at another man's wives.” 

Chuck cringed and Ash put on a knowing smile, ear to ear and said, “Trust me dude, these aren't his wives.” 

Cas frowned, opened his mouth to make a reply then it caught up to him that if they weren't his wives, well, so all he said was, “Oh.”

“Never mind this,” Chuck said, taking Cas' arm and drawing him off into a lavish and gaudy sort of sitting room off the main foyer. Ash tagged along, gave a low whistle.

“So this prophet gig pays well,” Ash said, “I mean in the heavenly mojo and whatnot. So you dudes knew each other on earth? Sweet, but do we have time for catching up?”

“I have a warning for you,” Chuck said lowly, looking around a moment, “you're drawing some attention I'm sure you don't want. See, Metatron takes it upon himself to hobnob with the more elite of the human souls up here; not that I'm a soul, mind you, I'm still actually alive, so that makes me unique.” Chuck waved his hands, “I'm off track. Anyways, he drops in here every now and again uninvited to grill me about stories,” Chuck shook his head, “and then he starts asking who among the human souls might be up on the angel software running the place. He mentioned there were blips where no blips should be.” Ash and Cas exchanged a quick, worried glance. “So I thought up my old computer and sat down and sort of tuned in and wrote a few pages. It's not something I do with any regularity any more, but I found I can do it when necessary.” Chuck hurried over to a very overly done art deco style desk and picked up a few sheets of paper and hurried them back over, putting them in Cas' waiting hands. “He's been to see some of the mathematical geniuses, and Howard Hughes for whatever reason, and then I saw this bit about you guys making your way to the armory. So I sort of nudged my heaven into your path. He's onto you now: you're going to have to be a lot more careful.”

“What could he do to us, exactly?” Ash asked. “I mean, we're already dead.”

“There are many things you can do to a soul,” Cas said helpfully, “the first and foremost is you can consume it and convert it into pure energy and negate any previous attachments the soul had upon it; were he to do it to you or me, we would simply cease to exist. You can also ...” 

Cas stared but Ash interrupted him. “Yeah that first thing is reason enough not for him to find us,” Ash said, “so let's get on with the plan.” They all turned to walk back to the foyer, where some of Chuck's not-wives were lounging on the steps. They gave small, sad waves to Ash and Cas.

“You don't suppose we have time for?” Ash started and Cas said, “No,” and pushed Ash out the door.

**

He was sure Sam and Mary Patricia were downstairs. He went into his room, sat on the side of his bed and reached down between his knees, shoving his fingers under the lip of his mattress. He pulled out an old iPod. He wasn't particularly enamored of iPods in general; he begrudgingly had music on his laptop, but mostly at Cas' insistence. This iPod he kept charged, and hidden. He pushed the large center button to make it light up and then he scrolled through the playlists. The corners of his mouth tugged up a bit. There were a few lists but he always paused at the list called 'Dean'. He clicked into it: it was mostly classic 70s rock as he expected, but there were other songs on the list that he didn't get sometimes. Songs that Cas would listen to over and over while staring at him, or mouthing the words to himself. At first it was creepy, then it was confusing, and then Cas called him Bright Eyes, like in that Bonnie Tyler song, and he got it. Cas had assigned songs to him like Cas was a sixteen year old girl. He told himself he wasn't going to do this; he wasn't going to sit around and moon over this stupid old iPod Sam had given to Cas and Cas had treated like it was made of solid gold. 

He pulled the headphones out of his bedside table, picked out the tangles and plugged them in. He wheeled down to the a song called 'Mystery' and hit play. He did recognize the singers, it was the Indigo Girls, and they sang about things like driveways, barking dogs, danger shining like sugar on your lips. He rolled his eyes, he stared at the wall, he wondered why Cas picked this song to put on his Dean play list, then he went to the next one. After a bit, he wondered why the fuck 'I'm a Barbie Girl' was on the list. Cas being Cas, being crazy, being himself, and he only got to be it for a very short time. It was so fucking unfair. 

He got up, carried the iPod over to his desk and opened his laptop. He fumbled around until he got the iPod plugged in, opened Cas' iTunes (password: bees-are-great) and sat there letting it charge. Then he took a deep breath and added a song to the library, then synced the iPod to add the song to its library. He had heard the song by chance while fiddling with the radio in the Impala; it had struck a chord, and it shouldn't have; he didn't want to be sixteen again, it had kinda sucked. But he had found the song, downloaded it, and had been trying to work up the nerve to give it to Cas. To give Cas a song he thought was a Cas song, for fuck's sake. Cas was the worst influence in how to have ovaries, sometimes worse that Sam. But he had waited too long, and now he couldn't give it to him, but he put it on his iPod, just the same. He made a new list, he called it 'Cas', and he assigned the song there. Afterwards he unplugged everything, returned the headphones to the beside drawer and tucked the iPod back under his mattress.

**

When Rufus turned around there was a man he'd never seen in his life standing in his heaven. 

“Who the hell are you?” he asked by way of greeting, and the man smiled at him. He was a pretty average older white dude with graying hair and beard and a fuzzy gray sweater. “I'm Marv,” the man told him. “You must be Rufus Turner.”

“So what if I am,” Rufus said, still wondering how this guy got here in the first place; it wasn't like all the souls in heaven knew how to heaven-hop, but maybe that was what was going on here. 

“So you get around a lot,” Marv said, “make all these little side trips and what not, back and forth through other heavens, and I'm sort of thinking it's not intuitive for you to know how to do that; so I'm here for you to tell me your story.”

“I hunted shit and now I'm dead,” Rufus said, “not much to tell. Kinda weirded out I'm not in a more Jewish neighborhood up here, but maybe I just ain't found them yet. So what's your deal, huh? Out seeing the sights, too?” Rufus Turner hadn't made it a point to worry what other people thought: of him, of his intelligence, of his bravery or really of his manners; those least of all. And that being said, he wasn't slow and he'd been briefed and he was pretty sure the only proper angel in heaven was standing in his living room. This was a problem. He thought briefly of his shotgun, propped right on the other side of the door leading from the living room to the kitchen. He wondered about his sanity, and if the gun would even have any effect on the angel in his living room. He wondered how to warn the others. He wondered how dying when you're already dead was gonna feel like.

“For a while I was sticking to the juicier choices for story time,” Marv said, “but this really nagging suspicion something is up got to me. You see there are computers here, just like on earth, but unlike the ones on earth, they know everything; literally. They know you've been heaven-hopping. But here is where it gets garbled: if you don't monitor these things constantly, things roll off the archive and get lost. And I'm not very techy myself; so, while I know you've been hopping around recently, I'm not sure where. What I'd like you to do is tell me, in as much detail as possible, where it is you're going.”

“There is this old saying,” Rufus said, taking a casual stroll into the next room and pausing by the door, “I can tell ya, but then? I gotta kill ya,” and he jerked his shotgun up, aimed in the rough direction of Marv and pulled the trigger to empty both barrels in his direction. Then he ran for the back door, through the kitchen and out on the porch and down the steps and Marv was standing there looking disappointed, hands clasped behind him back.

“What I don't understand in this whole scenario is why? I mean, what am I doing, really? I'm giving you free reign, I'm not imposing any angelic influence over anyone, I just want to be up in the clouds with endless stories, and that's not too much to ask. What do you care if the others took a nose dive for earth?” Marv squinted up at him. “That part I'd _really_ like to know. But I can see you're not going to be co-operative so my alternative is to consume you and glean from your fading sense of self what I can about the situation. Last chance to come clean, Rufus,” Marv wiggled his eyebrows.

“Kiss my perfect brown ass,” Rufus said and backpedaled and almost made it up the steps before he froze. “You know, they warned me that angels were dicks,” he hissed out as he watched himself start to unravel.

“I'm really sorry about this,” said a voice from all around him, “I did try to be nice.” And then Rufus Turner unraveled and became part of the greater being known as Metatron, but he managed to take most of his memories into the ether with him, and left Metatron very unsatisfied.

**

The huge doors made no sound as they swung inwards, and Cas strode through them like he'd never left. He passed the racks of glittering armor and swords, the desks piled high with ledgers of acclamation and praise, and the apothecary cabinets that reached beyond the ceiling carrying every ingredient for every spell known to man, and went straight for the big doors in the back: the ones clearly off limits at most times. Ash trotted to keep up; Cas really had a head of steam on. They stopped in front of a set of highly ornate black onyx-looking doors, and Cas squared his shoulders. 

“Hang on, Angel Man, Mal Culo has some valid concerns,” Ash said. “We need a superhero pow wow and possibly a monologue before we go any further.”

“They come from a far country, from the end of Heaven, even the Lord, and the weapons of his indignation, to destroy the whole land,” Cas said, and looked at Ash expectantly. He caught himself, looked away; there was no Dean here to know which chapter, which verse. “Isaiah, Chapter 13, Verse 5,” Cas muttered, and Ash made an 'ah' sound. 

“Uh, yeah, I'm sure that's biblical and all, but what's behind door number three, compadre? I mean it's all the way in the back here and behind a big, black, foreboding door. Are we talking nuke level?” Ash gave Cas a sideways glance.

“We're mortal souls battling an angel on its home turf,” Cas said, leaning conspiratorially close, “we're going to take all the help we can get. Some of the things in here can eat you if you get too close, so stay with me.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Ash said, reaching out to grip the back of Cas' sleeve as Cas reached to open the door.

**

Bobby Singer didn't know the man in his heaven, but he could damn well guess who he might be. The man stood back, watching him speculatively, rocking on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. Then he unclasped them, pointed at Bobby and said, “You're Bobby Singer, that much I got out of him. Tell me, Bobby Singer, how is it a ragtag band of human souls is traipsing over barriers so easily? I'm just dying to know how it's being done.”

“Who are you?” Bobby said needlessly and to stall for time. “What are you even talking about?” 

“Honey, is everything okay?” came Karen's call from the kitchen. 

“S'fine,” Bobby called back quickly. 

The man lifted his eyebrows, eyes moving to look over Bobby's shoulder and then back to Bobby himself. “You're not alone here,” he said, “that might make this a little easier. Call me Marv,” and the man came forward, extending his hand; Bobby did not take it. After a moment Marv drew it back. 

“I think you're playing dumb with me,” Marv said, “as a matter of fact, I'm sure you are. I just want some answers, that's all, then you can go back to your nice, happy, afterlife with your lovely wife and forget all about me. I'm promise, that's all I want. I just want the _story_ , tell me what's going on?”

“Gee, I don't know, Marv, you showed up in my house, shouldn't I be doing the asking?” Bobby said. “Look, not to be rude or anything,” and Bobby backed up, just to the other side of his kitchen door, “but I want to see if this damn thing works up here,” and he put his hand over the angel banishing sigil (one of many he'd drawn around the house, seems blood was blood on earth as in heaven), felt the heat and turned his head as it flared; and then Marv was gone.

“Ball,” he muttered, “Karen, I gotta go out!” he called. He grabbed his scrap of paper with the sigil Ash had written on it, put on his hat and grabbed his chalk and started making his way back to the Roadhouse.

**

Mary Patricia leapt to her feet, then up onto the couch and she screamed to the ceiling, “Metatron knows!” 

Dean and Sam both about came out of their skin and jumped; Dean slid off to sit on the floor. They'd all been engrossed in a Big Bang Theory marathon and somehow this just made it weird.

Mary Patricia ran in place on the couch, waving her hands at either side of her face, inhaling and exhaling like a child-birth labor coach. “Pamela says that Metatron seems to be onto them and that one of the party has disappeared and they aren't sure of Ash and Cas' whereabouts. Bobby is nervous because he thinks Metatron might finally get it together and figure out where they are and perhaps what they are plotting. Rufus, the man who is missing, he's Rufus. She's talking so fast.” Mary Patricia kept running in place.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Dean said, getting up off the floor. “Tell her to slow it the hell down, and why are you running on the couch?”

“Do you want me to tell you these things or not?” Mary Patricia snapped at him, and Dean threw up his hands in surrender, looked at Sam a little wide-eyed.

“If Metatron finds them he'll eat them,” Mary Patricia stressed. “Pamela says, you slow your ass down, Winchester, it's a situation, and one that you're gotten her into yet again.”

“What do you mean, eat them?” Sam asked quickly, “What is she talking about?”

“She says souls are energy and angels can consume them. She thinks he got to Rufus. What do we do? What do we do?” In addition to running in place on the couch Mary Patricia was now turning circles.

“Well uh, we uh...” Sam stuttered to a halt: just what _could_ they do? Not a damn thing really.

“Think of something!” Mary Patricia snapped again. “I don't even know you people, any of you, and already if you let something happen to them I'll never forgive you and that's without knowing you and if I get to know you it will be a lot worse!”

“What the fuck does that even mean,” Dean asked and ducked the following swatting attempt. “Wait a minute, eat them like ... when Cas was god?”

“Exactly like that,” Sam said grimly and Mary Patricia half-shrieked.

“What are you on about?” Mary Patricia cried. “Bobby says that you better stay indoors.” Her eyes darted back and forth nervously. “He doesn't want Metatron to come asking you. What does he mean? Come here looking for you? What are the implications if he _comes here_? Can he eat us?” Mary Patricia flung her arms out, bunched her hands in the collar of Sam's shirt and yanked him close. On the couch she still had to look up a little to be eye-to-eye. “What have you got me into?” Her voice came out all tragic and gravely.

**

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Sam said, letting her shake him back and forth a bit, “we're going to look after you, all right? Just try to calm down and let's put our heads together and come up with a plan.”

“How can we make a plan for Team Free Heaven?” Dean half-exploded. “We can't even get up there to do anything and we have to communicate through...” and he made an exaggerated gesture at Mary Patricia, who huffed up like an angry cat. “What the hell can we even do?”

“How about calming down and trying to think of some strategies? Dean, we've been there before,” Sam said. 

“We only went to the garden and half of it was with Ash's help.” Dean whirled himself away, paced angrily around the couch, reached up and shoved his hands over his head and gripped his hair for a moment. “If the only way to get there is dying ...” he started.

“No,” Sam said very loudly and very firmly. “Absolutely not. That would put you right in Metatron's hands, and if he's on alert now he's going to be watching. What the fuck is it with you and all out dangerous extremes?”

“Pamela says they don't think Metatron knows Cas is there, at least not yet,” Mary Patricia interjected. “Bobby says he was surprised Metatron didn't ask him because it seems to him the real threat is someone who knows Heaven and not just a lot of congregating human souls. What do you mean, you've been there before?”

“It's a long story,” Sam said. 

“Amateur,” Dean muttered. 

“Dean, that's not helping,” Sam growled. “Okay, to the stacks, there is something in the archives and we are going to find it. The myths on Jacob's Ladder for starters.” Sam gripped Mary Patricia around the waist and lifted her to the floor. She stared up at him mutely and when he released her she hurriedly smoothed herself down and looked at his chest, then lower, then back to his chest. Sam just shook his head and stepped around her, gripped Dean's shoulder and half-spun him, slapped a hand in the middle of his back and pushed him along.

**

The inside of the room behind the black onyx doors pulsated with a life all its own. Ok maybe 'life' was too prosaic a term, more like a holy spiritual back beat that hummed through his non-existent bones with every step they took into the vault. Cas just shrugged it off, his head turning this way and that, his feet staying to a well-worn path in the middle of the room and not straying from it. Ash had the insane urge to clutch to the back of his shirt like a five year old in the dentist's office. As they neared the back of the vault, Ash could feel the back beat start to head for a fevered pitch. Whatever they were approaching knew they were coming, and Ash could not discern if it was happy or angry or frightened or sad, it just _was_. Cas paused and came to a halt. He turned to look at Ash. 

“There is a nexus here,” he said, “a tiny fracture of a web of creation. I'm not sure if it can be harnessed in any way by a lower form such as myself; in all honesty, it might just burn me away. I've been God before, you see; and it didn't go well. The power of this soul I wear is amazing; it's pure energy, but I still don't know if it would be containment enough.” Cas reached out and put a hand on Ash's shoulder. “Maybe I should go alone from here.”

Ash had found little on earth or in Heaven that he couldn't pull to pieces, figure out, squeeze back together — but creation? Like terraforming, worldbuilding, Big Bang evoking, actually spinning the universe into existence? That kind of nexus? That would of course be some heavy-duty mathematical super-star genius shit right there. Biblical: but that was the point. Ash gave Cas a short nod. 

“All right, Angel Man, I'll play look out here; you be careful,” he said and Cas gave him that little sad smile Cas often wore. “Don't be gone long.”

“If my return seems very overdue, do not come looking for me; return to the others. Sam and Dean will think of something; my faith in them is resolute,” Cas told him. “If I don't get a chance to say it later, thank you for everything, Mal Culo. Thank you for not leaving me in my heaven where I would do nothing. People have taught me many things, but the most important among them is to never give up,” Cas took a deep breath. There were no more words, he turned and walked off.

**

“Okay, so the whole Jacob's Ladder thing was in Beth-el, that is Israel, dude, and how would we even know the pillar if we saw it?” Dean stressed, waving around a bible. “It's in Genesis, just like I said it was, even got the chapter and verses right. Cas would've been proud.”

“I'm proud,” Sam said, looking up from his old ledger. “And I think we should go through all these handwritten inventory logs. We have the Spear of Longinus and I didn't even know it until the other day.”

“I told you that months ago,” Dean said. “You never listen.”

Sam didn't dignify it with any further response. They read for what seemed like hours; Mary Patricia feel asleep on an ancient text about biblical warfare and Sam had to ease the book out from under her cheek to make sure she didn't drool on it. Dean was slouched so far down in a chair that Sam almost couldn't see him and Sam's own back was starting to complain. 

“Fuckin' A,” Dean suddenly roared, sitting up and slamming his ledger down on the table. “We got a chip of the pillar somewhere in the warehouse!” he crowed. “Says so right here,” and he spun the book around so Sam could see. Mary Patricia picked her head up off the table and blinked at the two of them. “We just gotta find it.”

“You know, all these bits and pieces, sounds like we have some high power spell components,” Sam said slowly. “Do you remember that spell Henry used to travel? It was Enochian.”

“Yeah, what are getting at?” Dean said, disappointed his discovery was being interrupted by his brother the brainiac.

“We have a chip of the pillar Jacob used to name Beth-el, we have angel feathers and the bones of a spell, and we have a spear that pierced Christ's side. We have the blood of the son of God. What if we did a blood to blood spell, like Henry did with high powered components; what are the odds there is some bloody artifact in Heaven we could lock onto?”

“Beam me up, God,” Dean muttered.

“Exactly,” Sam said.

“Stop the world, I'd like to get off now,” Mary Patricia interrupted them. “You two are very, very not right. I'm not sure what you're getting at here with all this blood of Christ talk and angel feathers and spells; are you listening to yourselves?”

“We don't generally, as a rule, listen to ourselves,” Dean told her, “we sound fucking nuts.”

“Mary Patricia, tell Pamela everything we just said, ask her if Cas and Ash have made it back yet and ask Cas if he knows of such an artifact in Heaven, that's key,” Sam prompted.

Mary Patricia gave a deep sigh but she turned her look inwards and was quiet for several moments.

“They aren't back yet,” she told them slowly, “but Pamela says they will make sure to ask as soon as they reappear.”

“Okay, so while we wait, let's make a trip out to the warehouse and have a look-see around,” Dean said, getting up, stretching. 

“Good idea, Mary Patricia...” he started.

“Mary Patricia is going to make coffee,” said Mary Patricia. “Good luck looking for your chunk of rock or whatever, I'm going to tag out this round.”

“What, so they got American wrestling in England?” Dean asked as he turned to follow Sam out.

“We do have internet you know, we don't still live in hovels and eat turnips all day,” she yelled after them.

“I know that one, that's Blackadder,” Dean yelled back before Sam yanked him through the doors going into the warehouse.


	7. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start

Bobby paced the interior of the Roadhouse once more; it was all going to shit so quickly, and to top it off, he'd managed to make it to Rufus' Heaven but couldn't find him. It was so fucking ironic to lose Rufus in _Heaven_ that Bobby thought it would never be topped. 

“What are we going to do?” Ellen said. “If Metatron finds out Cas is here then he'll probably do to him what he did to Rufus.”

“That's assuming he did do something to Rufus,” Bobby said, but he knew the truth. “The fact of the matter is we need to warn them somehow without attracting any attention. The thing is how do we even find them, anyone got any clues?”

“This is why you never send the President and the Vice President together on an air plane,” Pamela said, “you wipe the chain of command with one good shot.” She mimicked firing a gun with one hand. 

“Not helpful,” Ellen said. “I don't suppose you can broadcast to them?” She tapped her temple.

“That's not how it works, but what were these temporary tattoos for anyways?” Pamela said. “Any of you tried tapping in on that line? Didn't Cas say this is our heavenly cell phone network?” 

“Yeah, I've been thinking the hell out of this and nothings happening,” Bobby said, “we need a back up plan, too, suggestions?”

“Pray?” Jo piped up, “I mean, that is, if he could still hear it. But he's a soul in Heaven, and I used to pray to my Dad all the time and he heard it, so if someone prays to Cas, maybe that would do it.”

“Worth a shot,” Bobby said, “we'll give it a go, and Pamela, why don't you call in earth bound reinforcements?”

**

“What?” Dean said.

“They want you to pray to Cas, to warn him about Metatron,” Mary Patricia said.

“He's not an angel anymore,” Dean said, jaw tightening.

“But he can still hear you,” Sam suddenly rushed out. “When Mary Patricia first got here she told me something Cas said. I didn't share it with you because, well, it was from the day he died, when we were there with him on the apartment walkway. He said to tell you he was going to kick Metatron's ass and then kick it again for you. Verbatim, Dean, from what you said to him after he died on the walkway.”

“What happened to him?” Mary Patricia asked, and Dean tensed up all over.

“He got shot,” Sam said quietly, watching his brother steel himself against everything that might give him any comfort since Cas' death. 

“I”m sorry,” Mary Patricia mumbled, not looking at Dean, “but even if he can't answer you back, praying to him might help? And they asked it of you, they need any help we can give them.”

“Fine, all right,” Dean snapped. “I'll do it, but I'm gonna have a built-in control, and if I don't hear back on it, then I'll know this praying to dead guys is bullshit. So here goes. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want except to want to say a couple of things to Castiel, who art in heaven. First, now therefore forgive, I pray thee, my sin only this once, and entreat the Lord your God, that he may take away from me this death only, got it? Good. Now the second thing, I'm being told...” Dean hesitated. If this was working and he went blurting out Metatron's name in a prayer, then technically wouldn't Metatron hear it, too? “... told _Marv_ is on the lookout for you.” He sure as hell hoped, if this was working, it didn't work with angels' pseudonyms. “So watch your ass. That's all I got. Say hi to people for me.” He looked at Sam and Mary Patricia, then snorted and turned away.

“Dean,” Sam said but Dean threw up a hand and stalked off and Sam sighed. 

Mary Patricia watched him go, turned back to Sam after a moment. “I didn't meant to upset him,” she said. Sam smiled at her kindly. 

“It's not your fault. You're actually a big help, but thanks for the concern.” Sam was glad she had sympathy for Dean; he could use the help.

**

The pull was strong and insistent and he let it guide his feet further into the bowels of the vault. His muted and dulled senses didn't tell him anything beyond what he could experience at the moment. It was so odd living in the now, so singular, so boring. When he was an angel, when he held his true form he lived in many moments at once. But here he could blink his eyes and miss something; so distractions were a constant threat. Then he heard his name and a presence in his head that startled him to a halt and would have made him hold his breath if he had any. He brought up his hand as if he could reach out and touch the face behind the words in his mind: words filled with irritation and disbelief and hope and longing; words that made him ache along every string of energy balled up within this loose shape called a soul. He weeded through the message again, to actually hear it instead of feel it this time. A verse, and Dean never picked one randomly, and it was painful; why did he always believe the worst of himself? And a warning, a dire one indeed. What to do? Turn back now? Warn everyone at the Roadhouse, or forge ahead and hope the solution lay just beyond him in the pulsing dark of the vault?

He was never so indecisive as an angel; and Dean still called him angel, and so he decided to be one, and he continued on. The resonance of the place was astounding: a living, vibrant hum at the very center of everything, so vast and unexplainable that if not for a temperance lent by the vault itself it would drive one mad at its very first touch. Castiel knew who cast the temperance, whose will calmed the maelstrom; and he missed him too, with an ache that eclipsed all but Dean. Just the lingering memory of his Father's presence made this chamber bearable.

“I am here for Heaven,” Castiel said quietly into the thick air around him. “I am not one to be asking anything on the behalf of Heaven; but I am here all the same. It is not a proud moment for our people that this is what we've come to: that the plea for redemption be from the mouth of the least of them all.” There was nothing but a tangible silence, a nearly unbreakable skin of tension over the whole of existence. He didn't notice at first the miasma of tiny particles of light that sprang up around him, like glittering gnats in an ever-gathering swarm; and then he saw it was himself, being picked apart, atom by atom: each tiny fragment plucked, examined, then released into the air around them. He was a mystery easily solved, but still, it was easier to understand some things better if you pulled them apart to see what made them they tick. Maybe Naomi had been right, maybe there was a crack in his chassis that made him very tempting; if it was any consolation, this would be a final end. He would have no more existence in any form, and so would be free from the pain of missing Dean and his siblings and his Father. Free from everything; and though he ought to struggle, he couldn't bring himself to do it. How do you outrun everything and nothing, the very fiber of your being, all that came before you and all that came after you? What was the point? Was there beauty in endless struggle? He thought of Dean, and then he tried to pull himself free, but it wasn't to be; and then he thought of the words of Uriel, whom he had loved even in his treachery.

Be unafraid.

**

Just when he had one thing settled, another thing flashed or beeped or made a trilling tone, and there was just him here, and he only wanted answers to one thing, and he was getting nowhere. This was all very frustrating and enlisting a human soul skeleton crew to man the place wasn't panning out as he'd hoped. He needed objective advice and he wasn't sure where to find it; but Castiel had been on earth long enough by now to perhaps know which angels were where, he was always such a goody two-shoes about helping others that _surely_ he could point him in the right direction. The only problem was locating him; and he tried and he tried. He tried locating a Winchester, and he tried and he tried, and the more he tried, the more his patience thinned out to nothing. Nothing in creation had ever tested him more; and that was saying something. So it was just accident and the lack of orange juice in the bunker that brought Metatron and Dean Winchester face to face in the Quik Trip on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kansas. Dean jerked back, dropped the carton of orange juice he was holding and slammed the cooler door. Metatron gave him a half-smile and a head tilt and an eyebrow lift, and suddenly they were outside in the parking lot behind the dumpster.

**

“What the fuck do you want?” Dean said, pointing a finger, looking around, backing away. “I don't know what your fucking game is but I will find a way to kick your ass.” Dean had done this his whole life: threaten things that could kill him with a flick of a pinky. He was used to being a small aggressive dog in the face of a bull mastiff; it was a commonplace occurrence in his life.

“Now now, I'm not here to hear your condemnation or make any justification for what I've done,” Metatron told him, holding up placating hands. “As a matter of fact, I only came for some advice, mainly from Castiel. Can you take me to him?”

Dean said nothing, and he frantically clamped down on every thought he currently had in his head. But that was nearly impossible and he fumbled around for something to distract himself. Baby, think of baby, she needs a brake job; drum brake bleeder screws, rear drum hold down kit, front calipher bolt, disc brake backing plate gasket. Metatron stood there with his lips pressed together and lifted an eyebrow. 

“Castiel is not with you?” he said, seeming puzzled.

“No, what with everyone being tossed out of heaven, things got a little jumbled,” Dean said. “You'd know all about that, I'm sure. Now, if you don't mind, I have to go get on with my life without the interference of dick-headed angels. It wasn't good to see you, don't keep in touch.” Dean turned to walk away, only to find Metatron blocking his path. He stopped and made a frustrated sound.

“That seems odd; all the prayers he heard were yours; I put him down close to you, to be in your path.” Metatron narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips a bit.

“Cas' grace,” Dean suddenly burst out, “do you still have it? You mealy-mouthed son of a bitch, you cut it out of him, didn't you? What did you do with it? Why did it have to be Cas? Why not Naomi's or _yours_ , you are the one who wanted this, why did you make Cas be the one to pay for it?” And Dean knew the rage was too evident, the pain too plain there for Metatron to see, and he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“You had Castiel, but you lost him,” Metatron said slowly, keeping his eyes on Dean's face and Dean tried to jump from thought to thought, to make himself confusing, but Metatron shook his head slowly. “You know that won't work forever, in fact...” Metatron trailed off slowly. “He's dead,” he breathed in a hush, “Castiel is dead and in Heaven.” Metatron reached out then, grabbed Dean's forearm, and they vanished.

**

They weren't, then they were, and there was this loud klaxon, unlike anything he'd ever heard, it shook his very bones, and the grip on his arm vanished and he slammed his palms over his ears. His eyes were watering and he could only see things in shapes and blurs: where the fuck was he? Where the fuck was Metatron? What the hell did it matter? He ran, he ran like hell, because he didn't know what else to do. He was in some sort of forest, there were branches slapping him from all sides and his feet crunched over leaves and twigs and he ran with his hands over his ears and mostly blinded by his own tears and he wasn't sure how long he ran but the terrain under his feet changed to pavement and he stopped and looked up, turned in a circle, and seemed to be standing on the drive of some mansion. He slowly lowered his hands, ducking his head cautiously, but the thrumming bells were no longer heard, he let out a slow breath. Where the hell was he? He kept looking around for someone, and when no one seemed to be willing to come out and tell him where he was, he walked up to the door of the mansion, raised his hand, hesitated a moment, then knocked loudly. Almost immediately, he heard sounds from beyond the door, in the hall, the steady tap of heels on floor, and the door swung inward, and a man in a very fancy sort of suit like he would see butlers wear in old movies stood there and looked at him.

“How may I help you sir?” he asked, sounding like that guy who played the butler in the movie Arthur.

“Yeah, hey Jeeves,” he started, and the man in the suit interrupted him. 

“It's Powell, sir,” the man intoned.

“Okay, Powell, I'm a little turned around here and I'm wondering where I'm at?” Dean prompted and smiled. 

“Why, this is Bletchley Park, sir,” as in _why don't you know this, peasant?_ At least that was what the accent made it sound like, but Dean decided, since he didn't know what was going on, it probably wasn't good to piss off the first person he met. 

“Okay,” Dean said slowly, “Bletchley Park is in … ?” He squinted his eyes.

“Buckinghamshire,” said another voice behind him. Dean half-turned to the man that came jogging up the front walk. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure,” the man said, extending his hand, and Dean turned to face him then, took it. “Dean Winchester,” he supplied. 

“Is that right, like the American rifle? Well, I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Winchester. Alan Turing. How might Powell and I be of service?”

“Mr. Winchester is lost, sir,” Powell said and gave a little half-bow, stepping back to allow Dean and Alan to enter the house. Dean followed quietly, looking around as they walked down a large open hallway. 

“Lost? That's a bit of bother isn it? Don't worry, we'll get you sorted out. Powell, tea for our guest and myself in the front parlor. Send Alonso around with a box of my good cigars and the brandy for after.” Alan indicated a room and made the gesture for Dean to proceed him. 

Dean went in cautiously, looked around, decided there was nothing in here he could sit on because he wasn't polished. Alan smiled at him and shooed him over to a wing-backed chair and Dean sat on the very edge of it. Alan sat down opposite him and crossed his legs and smiled at Dean in a way that Dean knew. Dean Winchester was a master of the cruise, even if Cas had never appreciated it. He could look at a person in a way that would make that person's ego swell ten times larger that day. He could make his eye follow the line of a body, he could, with great precision, tilt his head up and down slowly and leave road burn, his cruise was so lethal. And now he was being cruised and he sort of felt naked fully clothed, and he vowed never to cruise another soul, living or dead, ever again.

“I'm so very glad to meet you, we don't get many visitors around these days,” Alan said, folding his hands in his lap. “Tell me, Mr. Winchester, what brings you all the way across the pond to grace these shores? And not that I'm complaining, mind you, but you really found your way out into the countryside. You're a lovely addition and I'm hoping you'll be summering at a place near here? We could attend parties, and do you play tennis?”

“Uh,” Dean started, but then the tea cart was wheeled in and boys in really, really white clothes began setting out little dishes and a tea pot. Dean looked around slowly. Metatron seemed shocked that Cas was dead, then he looked worried, then he'd grabbed Dean and...fuck no. Was he in heaven? This was Buckinghamshire, Heaven? Home of gay guys who liked tennis? Another boy entered the room and went straight to Alan, leaned over to whisper into his ear.

“It's always something,” Alan sighed and stood. “Dean, may I call you Dean? Would you like to see the bombe?”

“Yes?” Dean said, standing and followed Alan away.

**

“Okay, the one thing we are not going to do is stand around here waiting for him to show up and smite us all or whatever,” Bobby said. “You remember what Cas said: we find our path to the garden and when we get there, well, we'll improvise. I guess all we gotta do now is try to figure out what our path is.” 

Ellen made a face and rubbed at the sigil painted on her arm under her sleeve. “Anybody else feel that?” she asked then she scrunched up her nose, “Ash?” she said to the air. 

“Yeah,” Jo said, looking around, “it's weird, it feels like Ash. These things must be working,” she said, excited and covered her own with her palm.

Pamela, who had refused the mark, looked between them. “Is he talking to you?”

“No, not really,” Ellen said, “it's more like he's really unhappy about something and it's dark.”

“Yeah,” Jo said, “it's dark and he's worried about something. Cas, maybe?”

“Bobby aren't you getting any of this?” Ellen said, “You got the mark, too.”

“No I...” but he broke off because a whirling of tiny lights suddenly appeared over the pool table. He moved to grab Ellen's arm and push Jo in front of him, bark at Pamela to follow, all heading for the swinging door that still bore the chalk mark. But the tiny lights suddenly consolidated into a figure, and Cas fell heavily onto the pool table and lay there unmoving.

“Cas?” Jo cried, ducking under Bobby's arm and running toward the pool table. Bobby swore and realized he was holding Ellen's arm, and released her. She turned to follow Jo and Bobby was one step behind her when the swinging door slammed open and Ash stood there, breathing heavily. 

“One hell of a kickback,” Ash said, and dropped a duffle on the floor that clanked loudly. “I got all the blades I could carry and then some, grabbed some glowy stuff in bottles, too.” He staggered over to the bar, around it and dug a beer out of the cooler and popped and drained it while everyone stood there looking at him. “Oh good, it spit Cas out here,” he said as he leaned there, “it has a hell of a vibrato, let me tell you. and it wasn't messing around. It was all _get out and stay out_ if you know what I mean.”

“No, we don't know what you mean, why don't you enlighten us?” Bobby said drolly.

“Oh you know the fabric of creation, everything secular and just ... everything. Part of us all, blah blah blah, that sort of thing. At least, that's all I could perceive of it before it sorta slammed the door. It's really hard to explain,” he finally lamented. “Cas can probably toss some equations your way.”

“We'll pass,” Bobby said, looking at Cas still lying there on the table. “He still functionally dead? Because we got bigger problems.”

“What, more of them?” Ash said, looking between them.

“Rufus is gone, as far as we can tell, and I only got one explanation for that,” Bobby said. “We had Pamela tell that girl on earth to warn the boys. And to get Dean to pray to Cas and warn him, too. We figured he'd tell you.”

“So the MetaMan is onto us,” Ash said. “and he's drawn first blood. Time for diversionary tactics. We got blades, Angel Man's heaven mapping program and _me_ , so I say our chances are above average. What we don't want is him finding us and confiscating our Angel Man, so, we need a decoy until we can find the Garden, which houses heavenly control central.” Ash tapped his lip. “So I been thinking of ways to mask Cas.”

It was, of course, at that moment Cas groaned and stirred on the pool table. Jo and Ellen helped him to sit up and he blinked at them, then blinked around the room sluggishly. He shut his eyes tight and then opened them again, looked at Jo and Ellen again. “Why aren't I disintegrated?” he asked the room in general.

“We're not that lucky,” Pamela volunteered. 

“Yeah, okay, enough of that,” Ellen shot back. “He's trying, all right? So you got the short end of the stick, so did all of us and you know what? _He did, too_. So let's be a team here, okay? That's what this is all about, isn't it? We got a chance to make something right, let's just do it.”

Jo gave a nod, squeezed Cas' arm where she was holding it. Pamela took a deep breath and thought better of what she was going to say and just nodded.

“Angel Man, you got the heavenly equivalent of a Beam Me Up, Scotty!” Ash said, trotting over. “I sorta wigged out when I saw the sparkly light trail coming out of the belly of the vault, but then I thought, hey, it looks like a transporter beam. I guess that was a good guess. So what happened?”

“I'm not sure,” Cas said slowly, “it's in parts incomprehensible, but I suppose the gist of it was, it won't work for me.” He sighed, swung his feet off the side of the table and slid off, letting Jo and Ellen steady him until he was sure of his footing. “I'm sorry, I thought it might be a possible solution.”

“Well just come up with another one, but right at the moment we got the little problem of Metatron being on high alert,” Bobby said. “And Rufus is missing.”

Cas looked up in mild alarm. “Metatron is alerted to us?” Then he stopped, brow furrowing. In the vault he'd heard about this. Yes, Dean, he'd felt Dean touch him with a prayer, and now that he was no longer in the presence of the wavelength of all, the enormity of it hit him. “We have to move,” he said, “if we stay together he's more likely to pinpoint us. So we move now.”

“That's the plan, we split up like before, only we're one man short.” Bobby said. “So, Ash and I were thinking of a little diversion just in case Metatron tried to show up.” 

“What sort of diversion?” Cas wondered, moving to pick up the duffle bag Ash had brought and go though the contents.

“A decoy,” Bobby said. 

**

Sam got off the bus at the edge of town and didn't waste any time securing a ride. He wouldn't take it far because there was only so much of Lebanon, and Dean wouldn't have left the city limits without letting Sam know. He left Mary Patricia with strict instructions about the door and not opening it and drove around for a bit looking for signs of this brother. He finally found the Impala in the parking lot of a Quik Trip and checked it over. He prowled around the building and went inside and quizzed every employee he could find. One of them seemed to remember a guy like Dean talking to some old guy near the back coolers. The old guy had been in a ratty sweater, and they had just left, leaving a busted orange juice carton and orange juice all over the floor. He pressed for more details about the man other than 'old guy' and 'grandpa', and by the end of it he was certain that Metatron had Dean. He ran out to the Impala and slid in, apologized for hot-wiring her, and tore back to the bunker. There he greeted Mary Patricia by grabbing her shoulders and locking eyes with her.

“Tell Pamela, tell her right now that Metatron has Dean,” Sam said, breathless and slightly crazed.

**

Jimmy Novak stook awkward and uneasy in front of the bar in the Roadhouse. He looked in turn at each person in this insane plan, and then settled for simply glaring at Castiel until Castiel squirmed, which he did quickly. 

“Thanks for coming, Jimmy,” Ellen said with a small smile, “I know this is asking a lot.”

“It seems important,” Jimmy said, glancing at Ellen then away, “if you've come this far, you mean to see it through; I admire your conviction. I'll do what I can to help.”

“The plan is, you're with me for our trip to the garden. Cas is going to go a more indirect and inconspicuous route and hopefully avoid attention. If we get there, he's got a better shot than any of the rest of us of shutting this operation down. I guess what I'm asking is, if we get confronted how well can you pull off being Cas?” Bobby folded his arms, tilted his head. Offering to help when asked earned Jimmy points with him, but it would be a fruitless gesture if Jimmy couldn't play the part.

Jimmy took a deep breath. “I'm fairly certain if the need arose I could do a convincing imitation.” His eyes darted to Cas briefly and Cas looked away. “I think I spent enough time with the script.”

“Okay, then, switch clothes,” Bobby said and leaned back against the bar.

“Not that you have to, like, really undress and hand them over,” Ash interjected a little loudly. “We don't need no twin strip show here, just think each others clothes and imagine them on yourself.”

For Cas it was effortless: the words had almost finished leaving Ash's mouth when he stood there in a cheap suit, blue tie and trench coat. Bobby looked at him hard a moment, then dropped his eyes. Jimmy took a bit longer to situate the band t-shirt, jacket, ratty jeans and boots that Cas had died in. They looked at each other again then.

“Cas looks too much like Cas,” Jo said. “Maybe only Jimmy should change his clothes.”

“How can he look too much like Cas when he looks like me?” Jimmy said a little irritably.

“Lose the trench coat,” Bobby said, “maybe that's the problem.” Cas complied, standing there in just the suit jacket now. “Lose the suit jacket,” Bobby said, and Cas complied again. Bobby and Jo stood there appraising him.

“Walk to the other end of the bar and make a sharp turn, all pouty,” Jo said with a grin, and Cas looked confused and Ellen snorted at her daughter.

“Hey,” Pamela interjected sharply, she then lowered her head and closed her eyes a moment, brow furrowing. “We got trouble,” she said, lifting her head and snapping her eyes open. “Mary Patricia is saying Metatron took Dean.”

Bobby pushed off the bar and Cas pushed around Jo. “What do you mean, took Dean?” he demanded before Bobby could speak. “How could he find Dean, the bunker is well warded.” His voice raised with tension, “I couldn't find it, so how could Metatron? Much less get into it, they had to disable certain wardings before I could even come in the door ...” he cut off when Ellen touched his arm.

“It's okay, Cas. If Metatron's smart he's not going to do anything to Dean,” Ellen told him. “I'm just wondering if it means what I think it means.”

“Damn straight it does,” Bobby growled, “it means he knows Cas is here. No more chit chat, we need to move.”

**

“These are, without doubt, some of the most interesting readings the bombe has ever offered me,” Alan said with obvious delight. “We had been well on our way to deciphering all the chatter when everything went quiet around here.”

“Okay?” Dean said, looking at the huge antique looking machine that did who knows what. 

“It was up to the task with the Nazis, I'm sure it's up to the task of ... well, wherever we are now,” Alan said, studying a thin ribbon of paper that was slowly winding out of the machine. “It's been all sorts of fascinating, a jolly good challenge, and correct me if I'm wrong, but there is nothing better than a good old-fashioned brain teaser. If you really want to know my honest opinion, old boy, I'd say we were very far away from home, not matter what the surroundings look like.”

Dean wasn't sure what he should say, because he knew where they were, but he was a very special case and he wasn't sure he should be sharing his insider trader knowledge with a legitimate dead person who had stayed dead.

“You're quite the enigma,” Alan said then, turning to look at Dean, still threading the thin strips of paper through his hand. “Don't look surprised, I've seen your name come out of here before; whoever is in charge around here used to chatter about you a lot. The famous Dean Winchester, the man who had been saved. I have to say I'm terribly sorry not to have confessed to that straight away when you appeared on my doorstep; but I did want a chance to spend more time with you.” Dean shifted as he was cruised again: this guy was insatiable.

“That's okay, actually,” Dean said, “because that means you can probably help me. It's not like I'm not flattered but I'm sort of spoken for, and, uh, he's up here, _around_ here, somewhere. I'd like to try and find him.” 

“Oh well, not surprising, all the really lovely ones are usually snapped up. Well, yes, of course, I would love to help if I can. The bombe is a temperamental girl, but we might be able to coax some information out of her,” Alan said. “We could start with a name?”

“Cas, Castiel,” Dean said, not sure how much more he should volunteer. After all, Cas wasn't an angel anymore, technically.

Alan moved to the other side of the machine and Dean followed. There was an keyboard with hard, round buttons like Dean had seen on old typewriters. Alan typed out Cas' name on the keys, both variations, and watched as the machine whirled and digested it all. Alan gave him a little smile and a shoulder shrug.

“Nothing to do now but let her think on it,” he said. “So Dean, just what were you saved _from_?” 

“That is a very, very long and crazy story,” Dean said and shook his head. “Not sure you'd really enjoy it.”

“Don't want to talk about it?” Alan said. “Believe me, I sympathize. There is this one neighborhood bore that shows up every now and again to ask all the awkward questions; believe me when I say I don't wish to be like him. We can both very well keep our secrets.”

“This, uh, this neighbor who shows up: about so tall, graying, sort of a van dyke around his mouth? Crappy sweater?” Dean asked.

“Oh, so you know Marv,” Alan said blandly, “and you're … friends?”

“Hell, no,” Dean said, “and I would appreciate it if you didn't tell him I was here, that is, if you see him soon. Just a lot of bad blood with that guy, you know how it is.”

“Do I? I suppose I do,” Alan said. “Listen to us gossip like debutantes at a dance, you'd think we had little else to do. I do so enjoy your company Dean, I really wish you were summering here. A change of scenery is refreshing. Did I mention we have a pool?”

“Ah,” Dean said, but he was saved by several levers shifting and ticking noises coming from the bombe. 

Alan turned to look at it, eyebrows raising. “We might have a hit,” he told Dean cheerfully and went to check the tape. “Hmm, moving a little fast. I've been on my way to well acquainting myself with these symbols, but I'm still not fluent enough to translate right off the machine.” Alan tore the tape off and stood there with it and Dean came over to look at it. 

Dean knew written Enochian when he saw it. He looked at Alan, impressed that this one human soul had built a machine in his heaven that could rival Ash's laptop. People never ceased to amaze him.

“Here we are, seems someone is sending out a broad message all across the board; this is more activity than I've seen in a while. A single thread however; before the silence as I call it, the bombe would struggle to keep up with all the threads running in the air. It was a constant communication hub, night and day. I've worked up a very good reference,” he walked over to the table, where there were a series of very thick notebooks lined up. He lay the tape down and selected a notebook and began to flip through it. “This might take a while,” he told Dean, then “Powell! Divert Alfonso here with some of my fine American bourbon. You like Four Roses, I assume?”

“I'll try anything,” Dean said and tried to keep himself from pacing back and forth behind Alan as Alan sat to work up a translation. He accepted a brandy snifter when it was offered, and felt a little self conscious sipping at it. He tried to copy Alan, but Alan was absorbed and so his sips were spaced few and far between.

Dean ended up pacing after all, but way over on the other side of the room so it wouldn't look like he was pacing. He tried to stay occupied and carried his snifter around cupping it from the bottom and holding it with the stem between his fingers. He'd seen enough old movies featuring rich tycoons to know this was the proper way to hold a brandy glass. Finally, he ended up slumped in a high wingback chair that even the back of Sammy's head wouldn't have hit the top of, still holding his brandy snifter aloft. Powell chased him down to replace the three sips he had taken and he swirled it around because once again, old movies made up the entirety of his manners training.

“This isn't very encouraging,” Alan suddenly said. “As a matter of fact, I don't think you're going to like it very much.” Dean sat forward now, brandy swirling forgotten.

“It's a rather ominous threat to Castiel from someone, and it involved you.” Alan gave him a pinched expression. “Sort of like a ;give yourself up or face dire consequences' type of message.”

“Fuck,” Dean said, leaping to his feet and trotting over, and Alan looked up at him with a small smile and an eyebrow lift. 

“Americans,” Alan sighed and Dean rolled his eyes.

**

“I'm sure you can hear this, Castiel. I just want you to know the situation. I don't want any trouble. I'm sure we can co-exist peacefully: no trying to work out who betrayed who, no coup attempts, we just each keep to our own little bit of heaven. I have some collateral. I ran into an old friend of ours, Dean Winchester? He and I had a little heart to heart and I invited him back home for a visit. So you'll probably want to mind your Ps and Qs while he's here; that means no trouble. Whatever you and this little gang have going on, it needs to stop. If it stops, we're all peaceful co-habitants, just the way heaven was intended. If it doesn't stop — well, there are things a living person can run afoul of here in heaven. Let's both make sure that doesn't happen, all right?”

Metatron knew how to use prayer in a way that was impossible for others. He used it as a personal PA system in Heaven; a method only made possible by the cessation of all other angelic voices.

“What does he mean Dean is here?” Ellen said. “He killed Dean?”

“No,” Cas said with confidence; he would know if Dean was dead, he would. “He wouldn't do that. Dean is here as a living being, like the Prophet Chuck. There are some rules which he will not be bound by because he's not part of the whole, he is still his own vessel. It's hard to explain/” Cas sighed. “Metatron could even use Dean's soul if he desired, as an energy not bound by heavenly restrictions.”

“What's that mean?” Bobby spat.

“It means he has a bomb with no restrictions,” Cas said. “Metatron is smart, Dean is an excellent hostage _and_ a weapon.”

“So what, we just give in?” Ellen said. “That's not happening.”

“Of course not,” Cas said, “but what it does mean is we do need to proceed with extreme caution.”

**

“Look, I can't keep asking the same thing over and over, it's annoying, I can't be annoying, can I?” Mary Patricia told him. “What if she gets mad? Then she won't talk to me. You need to calm down.” 

“We just need to know if this Jacob's Ladder thing might work,” Sam stressed. “Is Cas there, ask about Cas!”

“He's there, he's saying for you not to worry, he promises you he will find Dean,” Mary Patricia said after a moment. “He says we should stick to radio silence as a precaution. I think he means me,” she gave a little grimace, “like I'm some sort of machine that can be switched on and off.”

“I haven't got time to deal with the fact that Cas' bluntness offends you,” Sam growled. “Tell Cas I have a spell that I think could be a possible Jacob's Ladder and is there any way to ... I don't know, tell it where to materialize. I mean, what part of Heaven are they in?”

Mary Patricia took a deep, fortifying breath, gave Sam the stink eye but got the look of inward concentration she had when she was broadcasting. She held up a hand when Sam started to speak and kept it there the entire time she seemed to be conversing in her head. Then she dropped it and sighed.

“Castiel says you shouldn't be using magics you aren't sure of and he's not convinced it would work; he says that you better serve Dean by staying where you are. On the other hand, Pamela says I should shag your fine ass to calm you down,” Mary Patricia said with a very straight face.

“He said he's not convinced it would work but he didn't say it wouldn't work,” Sam said, for the moment only hearing what he wanted to hear. Then he stopped a moment, turned his head and tilted it a little, as if replaying it in his head., Then he raised his eyebrows a bit, looked at Mary Patricia.

She shrugged at him, gave him a half smile.

**

“Okay, this is going to sound crazy but I need to get to Harvelle's Roadhouse,” Dean said. “Can that thing give me directions?”

“It's a decoder, not a map-making machine,” Alan said. “If you want to go there, then why don't you simply go? You know the way, don't you?”

“This is really hard to explain but here I go; we're in Heaven,” Dean said.

“Heaven,” Alan said, “are we really? You know I thought things were a bit too blissful. So this is Heaven and we're both here.” He paused for a moment, pursed his lips and sighed. “Well, I'm surprised I made it, but my condolences, Dean, you look too young and beautiful to die.”

“Okay, the point here is, I'm not dead,” Dean said. “I got dragged up here by an angel named Metatron. I think that is who your Marv guy is, and he's trying to use me against my friends who are already up here, dead, like you. It's a long story. But I know Ash and his heaven is a Roadhouse.”

“Ash?” Alan said. “A very charming young man, despite his hair affliction. I know him well.”

“You are fucking kidding me,” Dean said. “You _know_ Ash?”

“Yes of course, he's brilliant,” Alan said. “He visits from time to time, one of the more welcome visitors I can tell you: keen intellect, poor fashion choices. I trust you I'm not fucking kidding you.” He gave a sigh and his eyes traveled Dean's frame.

“Yeah you weirdly don't seem too upset by this,” Dean said. “And quit hitting on a taken man, okay? I mean, thanks for the interest but the neon sign says closed. Can you like ... ask him to come here? Or something?”

“Let me give him a ring,” Alan said and headed for a telephone on a stand at the end of the room.

**

Mary Patricia flapped the arms of the shirt she was wearing. She was currently straddling Sam Winchester's stomach and sitting there as well, and his very large flannel shirt hung off her shoulders and over her hands. 

“It's like wearing a tent,” she told him. “It's hard to imagine a human this big, or well, it _was_ hard to imagine; I guess I got a first hand oogle at one, didn't I? You're very talented, Samuel.”

“Oh god, don't call me that,” Sam said with a groan and wiggled his toes and stretched under her. “Only my teachers used to call me that; let's not go there.” He rested his hands on her hips underneath his shirt and thought: well, if he needed to be distracted, that was certainly a nice way to go about it. It came with a twinge of guilt, but at the moment, what could he do? It was probably best to wait on Cas' say before he tried the spell, but only if Cas' say came before he imploded with worry and stress. What could he honestly do at this point? Nothing: that was just it, he could do nothing. The dynamics and engineering of heaven were in the toilet as far as he knew; and a spell directed to accessing heaven could have untold consequences.

No, it was probably best to wait it out a while. He squeezed Mary Patricia's hips.

“Cheeky, you can't possibly be ready to have another go right now.” She slapped his stomach with the sleeve of his shirt. Sam gave her a half-smile and she smiled back at him. “You're a worrywart,” she told him. “I understand we're in limbo here, but what good is wringing your hands going to do you? Not a bit.” She poked his stomach this time, with a finger. 

“I just don't want to feel like I'm letting him down again,” Sam sighed, and when she started to open her mouth, he reached up quickly to press fingers against her lips. “I know,” he told her, because he was fairly certain she was going to reiterate the worrywart speech and tell him that this was not his fault. He knew it wasn't his fault; but his mind would trip him up. He shouldn't have let Dean go out for orange juice, but Dean, being Dean, had been going stir crazy and had been bound and determined to drag everyone with him. Sooner or later, with or without Sam's blessing, Dean would have had to have a breath of fresh air; it was just a matter of time. 

Mary Patricia bit his finger and he whipped his hand back with a shake and a scowl.

“Tastes like brooding,” she informed him, licking her lips. He sucked the inside of his cheek and tried to think up a good retort, because 'bite me' was right out.

**

The phone behind the bar was ringing. Jo rushed around the bar to answer it, as she'd done most of her working life, and even answered it 'Harvelle's Roadhouse', which made her mother smile and Bobby shake his head. She looked confused for a moment, then she shook the phone at Ash. “Hey, it's for you, some guy named Alan.”

Now everyone turned to look at Ash, wondering why he'd get some phone call from a man named Alan at the Roadhouse in Heaven. Ash sauntered over and took the phone from Ellen's hand, gave them all a shrug.

“Enigma Man, what's shakin'?” he asked with a grin. The rest of the bar occupants went back to looking at the map Cas and Ash were working out on the table. “That is fortuitous news, my friend, I'll be right over,” Ash said to the man named Alan on the phone. “I really appreciate the heads up. See you shortly.” Ash hung up. “I need to go see a man about another man, I'll be right back,” he told the assembled, and took a piece of chalk from behind the counter.

“Make it quick,” Bobby snapped, “we need to get this show on the road and all the gallivanting around is just making me nervous.”

“Won't be a mo,” Ash said, drawing off a quick sigil and pushing through the door. 

“He does that with a lot of ease,” Jimmy commented quietly, watching the door swing back and forth. “It makes me wonder that if a man can bend the rules of heaven, what was there to create order in the first place?”

“Maybe the lesson here is that the human race could be self-policing,” Ellen said, “and all of this up here could just be a guideline.”

“The Lord is my shepherd,” Cas said, not looking up from the map, “I think that was the original idea. It was humanity that took it far beyond what it was intended to be; it was humanity that helped to mold Heaven even as our Father shaped it with his hands from above. Perhaps you were created not so much from His will but rather to be our mission. Something to set us on the path He intended. What confused me about His divine intentions is why he left it to us; the very creatures who were not governed by free will but by His guidance. Perhaps that is the ultimate proof that God moves in mysterious ways.”

“You're downright poetic,” Pamela said from nearby, and Ellen gave her a little smile and looked away. 

Cas glanced up to find them all looking at him; he quickly lowered his eyes back to the map: as ever, uncomfortable to be the center of attention. Then the bar door swung open again and he didn't bother to look up until Ellen gasped and Bobby made a half laugh.

Dean.

Dean was walking just behind Ash as he came back into the bar and Cas' whole world spun to a single slow halt. Bobby was moving forward now, arms wide, and Dean walked into them, grinning happily. Then it was Ellen and Jo, hugged together, Dean pressing his face into Jo's hair. Jimmy was closer than Cas, and Dean was turning that way, but Pamela threw herself on him and he staggered back a couple of steps with a laugh, patting her back. 

“It's damn good to see you,” she told him and he started to reply but instead he jumped and reached back to move her hand. She gave him a half shrug and disappointed look and Cas' stomach twisted uncomfortably. But Dean moved her aside with a fond smile and turned toward Jimmy. Then he stopped. It took a split second for him to turn back around, look straight at Cas and blind Cas with himself, his smile, his _recognition_. 

“Cas,” Dean breathed out, and he moved toward him and Cas pushed himself to meet him halfway; to wrap his arms tightly around Dean's chest, to feel the warmth of Dean's hand spread against his back; to know everything he really lost in that one joyful moment. He closed his eyes.

**

He pressed his nose hard behind Cas' ear, he bunched his fingers into the shirt Cas was wearing, he leaned himself into Cas' hug and everything tilted and then sat back up right. He let go a breath he didn't know he was holding.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked and wondered if that was really his voice; it sounded thin and strange and Cas nodded, his cheek rubbing on Dean's. “It happened so fast,” Dean started out, “and I didn't even realize it at first and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry,” he babbled.

“No Dean,” Cas said, pressing closer as if that was possible. “It wasn't ...”

“With my own gun,” Dean gasped out, “because I was being so fucking cocky and wasn't paying attention and it got the drop on me like I was a fucking kid with no experience ...”

“Please Dean, it wasn't ...” Cas tried.

“I was such a smartass to you that day,” Dean half-sobbed.

“Stop!” Cas said, gripping his forearms and pushing him back to look him in the face, and Dean couldn't, he dropped his eyes.

The room around them was very quiet.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Cas asked, and Dean knew it wasn't directed at him.

“Men's room,” Ellen said immediately and he wanted to thank her but Cas' hands tightened on his arm and he was pulled forward, being led, and then they were in a small bathroom, the door shut, the bare bulb of the light fixture above them buzzing softly.

“No, Dean,” Cas told him, “I won't allow it. You have given me _everything_. I have grown in so many ways because of you it's unimaginable; and there is not one regret, not one. Please look at me, please.”

He raised his eyes slowly and Cas gave him that brief smile, the one where he would lift just one side of his mouth, just for a moment and Dean reached up to touch it before it disappeared and he was too late but he left his thumb pressed there, right at the corner of Cas' mouth. 

“You don't know how fucking much I miss you,” Dean said, his throat working, his voice scraping up through it, “every night, Cas, every night it's all I think about. You aren't supposed to be here; it's not supposed to stop now.”

Cas reached up to hold his face, his palms flat on Dean's cheeks, and he pushed his forehead into Dean's and Dean clamped his jaw shut to swallow his sounds and they stood there like that for the longest time, eyes closed, neither moving.

“I'm dead,” Cas finally said, “and by some miracle I am in Heaven, so this must be where I belong. I don't want to be dead, Dean, but even if I am, it's no reason for you to stop living. We have to get you back, we have to get you home. Sam said there was a spell ...”

“Shut up, just ... shut up about it, I don't want to talk about what the fuck I should be doing right now. I just want to stand here with you, okay? Can I please have that for five fucking minutes? You know I don't ask for shit because I don't need it; there isn't any fucking gadget or what the fuck ever I've ever needed. I had me and Sam, that was how it fucking worked, okay? Then you come along. You fucking waltz into my life like you got every damn right and you're so fucking superior and smug and sarcastic; and I hate your fucking guts; but I gotta play the game because we need help. And then you fucking turn around on me, you surprise me, you give a fuck, you _come through_ for me when I needed you man, when I really needed you. You hand-delivered me the world, safe from the apocalypse. You were part of that, we never would have gotten that close without you. You truly were a gift from God, no matter how absent his ass might be; and I will never forget it, never. Everything that happened after that, everything we fought, everything we went through; it was _us_ then, together. A team, and I never looked back, hell, I will still never look back. You were my endgame. Don't you get it? You were my prize; my stupid fucking crazy mixed-up life finally made sense. I finally really had someone to share all the crazy shit with; it worked, I wasn't going to have to do it alone. I thought maybe I had a chance of not dying with a gun in my hand. Fuck it all now, Cas, fuck it all, I don't even know if I wanna go back. Let Sammy be free, maybe ... maybe I should just stay here.” He covered Cas' hands on his cheeks and he closed his eyes again to avoid Cas' tears.

He felt Cas' fingers move against his cheeks, heard Cas suck in his breath between his teeth. He seemed to be gathering himself to say something.

“No fuck it, no, I'm not going to listen to it, not now,” Dean warned him. “Just don't, Cas.”

And Cas nodded and instead lifted his face and kissed him, and Dean crushed him against his chest and just pretended this is what his life was going to be like from now on.


	8. Know this, my brethren, Heaven is clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maid of Orleans, the Duke and the Great Flood.

When they came out of the men's room, Dean went straight to the bar and around it and started to rummage for a beer. Cas came out after him, glancing around at everyone, but he didn't follow Dean to the bar, opting instead to go back to his map on the pool table. 

“Hey,” Ellen said indignantly. “What do you think you're doing?”

“This isn't your bar, it's Ash's heaven,” Dean informed her without looking at her. With looking at anybody, actually.

“Hey,” Ash said indignantly. “What do you think you're doing?”

Dean spread his arms. “Can I have a beer? I got kidnapped up to heaven by a angel you can smell the crazy on and now all my dead friends are giving me shit.”

“When are you going to tell us Cas is your boyfriend?” Jo asked him, coming over to lean on the bar.

Beer in hand, he looked up at them, knowing every eye in the room _(with the exception of Cas')_ was trained on him.

“When's it any of your business?” he asked.

“Fine, maybe it's not, it's just an interesting development,” Jo said. “We're in Heaven, asshat, no one is gonna judge anything.”

“Don't get snappy, boy,” Bobby interjected. “If you want my honest opinion, I think I have suspected it for a long time.”

“For fuck's sake,” Dean groaned.

“Nothing wrong with a little switch-hitter action,” Pamela had to add, looking from Dean to Cas and back to Dean. “Not my first choice, but hey.”

Dean turned to look toward Cas and Ash, who were very, very busy avoiding any of this conversation. His eyes then found Jimmy, who seemed to startle when Dean's eyes rested on him and then turned an interesting shade of red. Dean started to ask what his problem was, but then he sort of hit on the fact he was fucking Cas in Jimmy's body, and, well, he might have a problem with that if he were in Jimmy's shoes, so he didn't press.

Dean shrugged and downed half his beer in one go; it was good, good beer, and ice cold, so he could believe it was Heaven. “So what's our plan?”

“You're going home,” Cas said firmly without looking up. “The last thing we need Metatron doing is using you as leverage, so you're going home and you're going to stay in the bunker this time.”

“Who the fuck made you ...” But Dean didn't finish, because Cas snapped his head up and directed a squint in Dean's direction. 

“I'm fairly certain the only thing keeping him from swooping in to snatch you up is a combination of wards and Ash's modified sigils that have masking abilities. Do you have any idea what a generator _your_ particular soul is up here, Mr. Righteous Man? That coupled with the fact he knows you make all of us, with perhaps the exception of Jimmy and Ash, an emotional cripple.”

“Hey,” Ash said, “I love the shit magnet, too.”

“Sorry,” Cas told him, and Dean gave him a mocking half-smile and shake of the head. “By the way, Dean, Exodus 11, verse 17.”

For a moment Dean didn't understand, and then he did: his control, proof Cas could hear him in heaven. 

“Well fuck,” he said quietly, “I owe a lot of people a lot of prayers now, don't I?”

“It's not much different than when we was alive,” Bobby said. “You never wrote, you never called unless something was trying to eat you.” But he wasn't serious, and Dean grinned and ducked his head.

“This is heart warming, and Dean, we're all glad you got in touch with your feelings, but the longer we dawdle around here the greater the chance of getting made. We got an angel on our tails now, and time's a wasting.” Ellen gave them all a significant look.

It got the desired effect. Everyone crowded around the map. Cas and Ash took turn explaining how to stay on course, what to look for, what memory traps to avoid in order to keep moving forward. Cas ruled out prayer as communication as it was too easy to detect; they should rely instead on the sigils that used emotion and instinct. Cas' first order of business was going to be contacting Sam in order to figure out if his Jacob's Ladder spell was viable and somewhat safe; at the moment it was the only option to get Dean out of heaven. But Dean wasn't having it.

“This is bullshit! I can help, you know I can.” Dean took the argument straight to Bobby and Ellen. “Tell him, I am just as capable of kicking Metatron's ass as any of you.”

“He's got a point,” Bobby said, “it makes our odds a little better to have him on point. I mean out of the assembled, only four of us are actally hunters, I just lump Cas in because he's hunted before. But Pamela and Ash and Jimmy? Not so much, so Dean helps our odds.”

“No,” Cas said stubbornly.

“Your no doesn't veto a majority,” Dean said, waving his arms.

“I have to agree with Bobby,” Ellen said slowly, “Dean has lots of experience, he's highly resourceful and very intuitive and quick on his feet like no one I've ever seen. He's an edge.”

“No,” Cas said plaintively. “If Metatron falls upon us in true form he'll be devoured along with the rest of us, and he's still alive, I want him to live his life.”

“You don't get to decide how I want to live the rest of my life,” Dean hissed at him. “Are you seriously asking me to walk away from this when you fucking know you need all the help you can get? Now, _now_ is when you decide to be selfish with what you want, and never before this moment? Come on, Cas, we have to fuck sentimentality; we're getting your family back, right?”

**

He wanted to hit him; he really wanted to slam his palm across that beautiful jaw and see him gape in surprise and see him get angrier; he just really wanted to lay one on him. Of all times to bring up _family_ , when Cas was standing in the presence of the driving force of all his millennia of life. Yes, he wanted the angels back, yes, he wanted heaven free of Metatron's influence, and yes and yes, he wanted Dean to be _safe_ , and was that to much to ask for? Apparently, so.

“I know that I've asked for stupid, impossible, tremendous things in the past,” Cas said, feeling his voice rise, “but can't you see in all my years of existence you're the only thing I've ever _wanted ?_ I was fine before, I had my orders, and then here you come, you righteous asshole, and fuck that all up! I want you to be safe! Bobby can understand that! Ellen and Jo and all of them here can understand that! Give that to me, Dean!”

“No,” the love of his very long life said stubbornly, and set his jaw.

So Cas slapped it.

**

“I don't think this is a very good idea,” Mary Patricia said, standing at the edge of a chalk drawing on the floor of an old warehouse not too far from the bunker. “You heard what Cas told you; no doing this sort of thing because we're not sure it won't blow up in our faces. Why did we have to come here to do it anyway? Afraid you'll make a mess and Dean will yell when he gets back?”

“Cas has a lot of nerve talking about things blowing up in people's faces,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “I get where the guy is coming from, I really do, but knowing that and him knowing me, he knows I'm going to do this anyways. My brother is up there. To make sure he gets back, I'm doing this. I can't do it in the bunker, it's warded.”

“I use to think being in Heaven wasn't such a bad thing,” Mary Patricia said, “is this the corrupting influence I was always warned about as a child? Oh, don't go round with those boys, Mary Patricia, they're bad lots. This makes you a bad lot, Sam Winchester, and I slept with you. Do you feel no remorse?”

Sam gave a shrug and pulled a face that made Mary Patricia snort in frustration. “It's that you're American, isn't it? No regard for anyone else's feelings when you think you're in the right. But being in the right doesn't make you right. You think I want to stand here and watch you blow yourself up? Is that what you think? I have news for you, yank, where I come from we have something called manners.”

“Where you come from, you get nothing done for the apologizing,” Sam told her. “I watch PBS.”

“Oh, so you watched Are You Being Served and Doctor Who and you think you have a handle on it?” Mary Patricia flared her nostrils.

“I also watched the Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin and Fawlty Towers, so yeah, I think I have a handle on it,” he said.

Mary Patricia ran her foot over some of his chalk lines, and he swore at her but she darted away before he could swat her.

**

“You slapped me!” Dean yelled.

“Yes, and I want to do it again!” Cas yelled back. “This is what you get for being so fucking noble and for teaching an angel how to swear! And how to lie! And for being glorious! Go home!”

“No, fuck you!” Dean yelled back.

“Are you two finished with the foreplay?” Bobby yelled not to be left out. “I wish I had time to let you two get a room but we got a situation here. Are you with us? Good. Now, we're gonna have a little prom date switch up here. Cas, you're with me, Jimmy, you're with him,” and Bobby pointed at Dean.

“Wait a minute,” Dean said. 

“Ellen and Jo, Ash and Pamela, that does it. Everyone has their map and their plan. Cas, put a sigil on Dean and let's move out,” Bobby finished, ignoring Dean.

“Decoy detail,” Ellen said with a wink at Dean. “The perfect set up to let Cas slip by.”

“Too damn perfect,” Bobby said. “So go out there and make a lot of noise and run really damn fast. Dean, you're a freakin' gazelle, keep an eye on Jimmy.” 

It made sense and Dean groaned, threw his hands up. Then Cas came over and slapped some paint on his arm and didn't look at him.

“Fine, then give me and Novak here a head start.” He marched over to the door and Ash saluted him. He turned to see if Jimmy was following. Jimmy took a breath, then walked over, giving everyone a look as he went by.

“Okay, Dean-o, you've done this before, so whatever path to the garden you took, just try and find that. It should be okay with Jimmy tagging along with you, he can just follow you. Have you troopers checked your parachutes? It's gonna be a long bumpy ride. General,” Ash directed at Bobby, “on your orders!”

“Let 'er rip,” Bobby said with a tilt of the head. “See ya in the garden, be damn careful.”

Dean looked over at Cas one last time. Cas did not look very happy. He looked very upset and angry; he was glaring at the back of Bobby's head, but he always seemed to know when Dean was looking at him so he snapped his head over to glare.

“See you in the garden, Cas,” Dean said, then he threw his arm around Jimmy's shoulder and yanked him close, pressing his cheek to Jimmy's, and grinned as he barreled them out the door. Jimmy just yelped, but Cas shot Dean a bird.

**

“How do you read your own handwriting? I thought you bragged about going to Stanford,” Mary Patricia said, holding open the notebook.

“I don't need commentary,” Sam said, “I just need you to read the incantation. I thought you said you could read Latin.”

“I can when it's written legibly,” she replied with a snort and an adjustment of her glasses. “And I'm still not on board with this, I'll have you know, I think this is a really bad idea, considering an angel told you not to do it.”

“Ex-angel,” Sam said, getting the last of the ingredients ready.

“Still, he probably knows more about this heavenly hocus-pocus than you do.” She shook her head. “So I just read this and that's all?”

“Well, that and sort of keep watch; not sure what would happen in the circle was broken, but I don't want to be halfway up and have the ladder fall out from under me,” Sam said.

“I'm probably not the person who should have so much responsibility,” Mary Patricia said. “Are you sure you want to do this? I think maybe we should go and have another tumble and wait for someone upstairs to check in.”

“Tempting, but no, nice try,” Sam said.

“I should honestly be horribly hurt and throw this notebook to the floor and swear to never trust a man again, but I'm not, so it's moot,” she shrugged and Sam grinned. He sorta liked her. 

**

 

A flash of wing was all it had taken to convince her. Perhaps it was because it was what she'd hoped for her entire mortal existence. Her heaven was an encampment with standards flown high and men in armor congregating around and waiting for divine providence. Really, it hadn't been that hard. And now she was prowling the gardens, good at following orders like any soldier. Metatron toyed with a few other military commanders but dismissed the idea. She was more malleable because she came from a time when beliefs were much stronger.

The Duke was happiest amongst his movie sets and was so embedded in his iconic image that he didn't even bat an eye when an angel approached him for help. He only requested that he bring his favorite guns and favorite horse; and now he, too, patrolled the grounds, on the alert for intruders.

One of the first righteous men, one who had weathered a great flood and with whom he'd shared a long conversation back when his father still resided on his throne, came to stand with him as well. It was unexpected, but he had garnered a few friends in his long years of service in heaven. It was good to have someone to speak with who didn't take his every word for scripture or scowl down at him from the back of a horse.

So among the powers he wielded now, he had an army, a posse and a flood to back him up. Whatever it was that was being plotted against him should stand little chance of succeeding. He found he harbored a mounting fury at the fact he had to take up these measures now after he was sure he'd eliminated all threats to his place in Heaven. He heard the sound of hoof beats behind him, felt the presence at his back and the heat from the air the horse blew from its nostrils.

“I think it's best if I ride out and do a little lookin' around,” said the movie legend behind him, “get a lay of the land, make sure the borders are respected.”

“An excellent idea,” Metatron said, “it's good to take initiative. Report back to me should you find any threat, or take even more initiative and handle it, would you?” He turned then to look up into the man's eyes. The man tipped his hat at him before wheeling the horse around and laying heels to its flanks, and they sped away.

**

“I don't get it, where's the _road ?_ ” Dean groused, turning a circle. As far as he could tell, they were standing in some park. There seemed to be some ducks swimming in a maintained pond and everywhere he looked there were concrete benches and rolling hills and pavilions and strange looking things he couldn't make out on a hillside. It was like fucking tranquility. Okay, so it was Heaven, but still.

Jimmy Novak made a slow turning circle, gazing first one way then another. He walked away from Dean and Dean watched him go with a confused expression but trotted to follow him. 

“Hey Cas, _fuck_ , Jimmy, sorry, what the hell you looking at?” he asked. “You know if we're being decoys maybe I should be calling you Cas, huh? What do you think?”

“I think I recognize this place,” Jimmy said slowly. “I just need a better vantage point,” he ran over and climbed up to stand on a low wall that half encircled a garden. “Ah, yes, I see it! That's the Ten Commandments Mountain. This is Fields of the Wood Bible Park. It was in Murphy, North Carolina. I met Amelia here. Why are we here?” he looked down at Dean.

“Ten Commandments Mountain?” Dean said, squinting at him. “Are we in some religious theme park?”

“Oh, well, more or less,” Jimmy said, hoping off the wall. “I came here with a youth group from our church, not our normal sort of sightseeing but it was on the way,” Jimmy shrugged. “Amelia was working here on her summer break. We started to write to each other, like penpals,” Jimmy sighed. “But this is where I met her; it wasn't long before I was in love with her.”

“Touching,” Dean said, “truly, but we need a road?”

“Well I've never done this before,” Jimmy said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Dean sighed. This wasn't like last time at all. In fact this seemed to be Jimmy's happy trip down memory lane. He felt eyes on the back of his neck and turned to see Jimmy staring at him, but unlike his döppleganger, when Dean looked at him, he looked away. Cas would have never let Dean off that easy.

“Okay, we scout around and look for the road then,” Dean said, “but don't get too far away. Never know what's lurking around here.” 

So they walked around and took in the wonders of Field of the Woods Bible Park. Jimmy still remembered a lot of it. The All Nations Cross, the Psalms of Praise and the baptismal pool. He didn't like the supposed tomb of Jesus, however, thought it was tacky to have an imitation. “I'm really surprised,” Jimmy said finally, “I'm not being mocked right now.”

“Dude, you met your wife here, I'm not a pig you know,” Dean said with a snort. “Gosh, get out of line a half a dozen times and everyone thinks the worst.”

“It just doesn't seem to fit your personality,” Jimmy said. “I mean, I'm sorry to assume or put a label on you, but I do remember our brief time together and well, you don't come across as compassionate, and I'm not saying any of this right,” Jimmy stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I guess I'm just at a loss. There are _so many_ things about you that I just ... was it my body or the angel?” Jimmy stopped, staring resolutely at the ground. “You know, he doesn't really look like that. I've seen him. If you had seen him, he's ... so strange and awful and wonderful; it almost defies description. He has more than one head, you know.”

“Are we talking about Cas?” Dean said, “Look, don't be worrying about your virtue or anything, because it's not like that, I swear. You're fine. What do you mean he has more than one head?”

“I counted three?” Jimmy said with a shrug, “And his voice is, well I can't say it's like music, but it has that quality, like a lilt. Why he has wrecked my throat now is a mystery. What ... what do you ... how do you... I'm sorry, it's not my business.”

So not a conversation Dean wanted to have, so he pushed forward quickly and heard Jimmy move to keep up with him. Then Jimmy stopped and pointed. In the distance stood a church. Dean didn't think it was out of the ordinary as they were currently roaming the grounds of a bible camp.

“That's St. Mary's from East Howard Street, what's it doing here?” Jimmy trotted toward it and Dean followed. 

“How could he have three heads?” he asked Jimmy's back. “What do you do with three heads?”

“One's an elk with big antlers and the other is an eagle,” Jimmy called back. “They didn't say anything, and you really couldn't get a good look at his other face for all the hair.”

“Oh god, he has a do like Sam?” Dean asked as they went into the church.

**

Ellen Harvelle was just about as impressed with heaven as she was any other place she'd taken up residence in life. It had its perks. Being with her husband and daughter was, of course, the biggest of them and even now, doing this, it gave her a sense of purpose. She'd been many things in life and now that she was dead, it didn't mean she no longer wanted to contribute. Her daughter walked beside her, and while she was happy to have her close, she'd wished her daughter had lived more of her life on earth; maybe even had a daughter of her own. But now the name of Harvelle was just as dead as they were, and it was just the way life, and death, went.

As it turned out their path was a rainbow that shore bright and beautiful overhead. It came from one of Jo's early childhood memories, before Jo knew of monsters and hunters and all the other trials of human existence. A rainbow was human existence, too, and sometimes Ellen wondered where they had forgotten that. 

“Maybe when we get to the end we'll get to see Thor,” Jo was saying, looking around as they went. It was pleasant enough, just like driving on a Sunday through a small town unmangled by more modern times. 

“Here you are dead, and you're still on about that movie,” Ellen said with a grin and a shake of her head.

“Chris Helmsworth and Tom Hiddleston,” Jo said bouncing along in front of her, “what's not to love? When they die, I'm definitively going to meet them,” she announced nodding. “I should do that, you know, get the autographs of all the dead famous people in Heaven.”

“You could start a fan club,” Ellen said. There wasn't a single soul she'd met in Heaven as optimistic as her daughter. “You certainly aren't afraid to let down your inhibitions now that you're dead.”

“That's just it, we can do whatever we want, like right now. We're off to fight the only angel in heaven in hopes of getting all the other angels back, and when we win, not if, they'll be grateful. We'll be VIPs, I can make out with Kurt Cobain,” and Jo looked a little glassy-eyed for a moment, “until Courtney Love shows up, then I'll stop, I promise.”

Ellen just laughed. They were making good time, and the scenery was already taking on a lusher, forest like appearance, she supposed it wouldn't be long; but then again it was kind of odd there was no one guarding the way. Of course she spoke to soon.

There was the sound of hoof beats, and at the crest of the next hill, a woman appeared. She was sitting astride a horse that was decked in colors and she wore gleaming armor and carried a standard. She looked at them coolly from her vantage point.

Jo slowed down, stopped to wait for Ellen to join her. They regarded the woman together.

“Hey I think I know who this is,” Jo said slowly. “See that banner she's got? I've seen that. I know that! It's God and two angels on either side. Mom,” she said, urgently gripping Ellen's arm, “I think that's Joan of Arc.”

“You should get her autograph,” Ellen said, “I remember you wrote a report on her in high school, right? She was pretty kickass.”

“Yeah,” said Jo breathlessly, “she was, I kinda wanted to be like her. I can't remember if she can write, though.”

The woman put her heels to the horse and it started a slow walk down the hill toward them. Ellen and Jo looked at each other a moment, things unspoken passing between them. Ellen stepped forward to make it clear she would do any talking.

The horse and rider stopped a little ways away from them. Then the woman sat straighter in the saddle and looked down her nose.

“This camp does not tolerate followers,” she intoned, “I won't tolerate followers.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen asked. “We're not following anyone.”

“Don't be coy with me,” the woman said, “over the hill there is our base camp. My men are chosen by God. So you need to remove yourselves or I will remove you personally.”

Ellen furrowed her brow but Jo took a startled breath behind her.

“She's talking about women who used to trail after her army,” Jo said, “she was famous for breaking a sword or a standard on the backside of a …. she thinks we're _whores!_ ” Jo was all sorts of scandalized and affronted. 

“Listen, sister, you think you're the only woman that can strap on a weapon and wade into a man's world? You got another thing coming,” Ellen said heatedly.

“Mom, don't lecture Joan of Arc,” Jo said in an embarrassed way.

“I'm not taking any sexist bullshit, especially not from another woman, Joanna Beth,” Ellen snorted. “We're trying to find the garden,” she said, glaring up defiantly at the girl on horseback. In truth, she really didn't look that much older than Jo, and Ellen wondered how she was here with an army of men and no mother in sight.

“I've been warned about you. You dare to stand against an angel of our Lord Almighty?” The young woman on horseback lowered the standard like a lance. “You should be burned for such heresy; perhaps my men need a lesson.” She laid her heels into the horse and it leaped forward.

Ellen went right, Jo went left. Joan of Arc swung her horse in Ellen's direction and Ellen dodged into the trees to make it harder to chase her; not that Joan of Arc wasn't giving it a valiant try. Of all the damned things to happen. Getting speared by an ancient hero of France might be the way to go in someone's book, but not Ellen Harvelle's, not today, not ever. She looked frantically around as she ran, then spotted an opportunity, let herself into the horse's path for just a moment, then barreled into a low branch, pushed it with all her might, ducked under it and let it go. The horse cried in pained surprise; Joan of Arc kept her curse basic and French and nothing blasphemous.

“Run, tart,” she yelled after Ellen after managing to calm the horse, “I have your scent now, you will not gain the garden!”

Well, shit; but maybe while Ellen was running decoy, Jo could.

**

Mary Patricia read Latin from the notebook of Sam Winchester while Sam Winchester cut his own arm and bled into a copper bowl full of bits and smelly ends of assorted junk. She frankly thought he was mental. But the wind picked up as she was reading, scattering small debris along the warehouse floor, and the roof started to rattle, and she faltered once and Sam gave her a sharp look, so she soldiered on. She stumbled when the building shook and in order to keep from screaming in fright she instead screamed in Latin, and Sam gave her a huge grin and a thumbs up for courage and she got to the end of the verse, dropped the book and covered her ears. There was a loud whining pitch in the air and the whole building seemed to bend in on itself and she dropped to her knees and then bowed over them to try and shield her eyes from a blinding light that made her see her own knee bones through her skin, and there was a tremendous wrenching sound. Then all was silent and still again, just like that. She slowly lifted her head and squinted her eyes because the room still had a permeated glow to it and she felt her jaw drop because there was Sam Winchester standing in front of a staircase. A staircase that seemed to be made of light and air, and her first irrational though was it would never hold him because he was far too big and heavy.

She dropped her hands from her ears. Her second irrational thought she voiced out loud. “And just how long will it take you to climb the stairway to heaven?” she blurted. “It's got to be a million miles straight up, I'll be dead before you make the top!”

Sam started to say something, but he furrowed his brow as if he hadn't thought of that.

“I bet you're wishing you'd summoned an heavenly escalator now,” she told him, coming cautiously forward. “Does Zepplin know you've stolen their thunder?”

“I knew you were going to make an Eagles joke, how could you not?” Sam said. “It's going to be okay, you just wait here. But if something shows up, just ... don't be heroic, okay? Take care of yourself first.”

She went on tiptoe, grabbed him by the hair and yanked him down and slammed her mouth over his; when they parted he was blinking and she said, “For luck!”

“Right.” Sam kissed her back just as suddenly, then they nodded at each other and he took a deep breath, looked up into bright white nothing and took the first step.

**

“Wow, this is really boring. Your path is nothing but the unending corridors of MIT?” Pamela said, walking beside Ash. 

“Brain food,” Ash told her, “and we're indoors in air conditioning.”

“So that's what's important? Air conditioning?” Pamela said.

“Remind me to tell you how it won the west sometime,” Ash informed her as they rounded a corner. At the end of the hallway before them stood a man dressed in a robe and sandals. He seemed to be studying papers pinned to a billboard there, and he didn't seem to be disturbed when Ash and Pamela approached him.

“I really do understand you think this is right,” he said to them mildly as they drew near, “but even with your conviction, it's not wise to stand against that which God has created.”

“Sorry,” Pamela said, “do we know you?”

“No,” he told them, “but that isn't important. Please know that I have no wish to harm you, any of you, but the garden was not meant to be controlled by the souls which it protects. There are some places that only the angels should tread.”

“Whoa there, Grandpa, in case you haven't noticed, the angels are gone,” Pamela said, but Ash laid his hand on her arm and she looked at him and he gave a sage nod of his head.

“What my lovely companion here is saying is that the lone angel in central command kicked all the other angels out and we just want to have a friendly chat with him about maybe getting them home,” Ash said. 

“That's not for you to decide,” the old man said, and he looked regretful. “I ask you now to turn back.”

“And if we don't?” Pamela asked, chin up. 

The old man said nothing, but there was a pressure to the air and then there was the sound of water and it came seeping under the double doors at the end of the hall.

“You clog all the toilets?” Pamela said, “That's the threat?”

There there was a roar and a rushing sound, and Ash had just enough time to turn back, grabbing Pamela to follow him, as a wall of water came crashing into the hallway.

**

“This is way too easy,” Bobby said, and Cas nodded beside him. Bobby's path, much like Sam and Dean's, was a myriad of roadways he'd traveled in his life. Right now, he and Cas were in a beat up pick-up truck that Bobby had made his first parts run in, back when he was merely Singer Auto and Salvage, and Karen was waiting for him at home. 

“Surely Metatron isn't as incompetent as he's leading us to believe,” Cas said, craning his head to look behind them at the empty road. “It does lend a very uneasy feeling to this journey.” 

“Well, this is the last thing I thought I'd be doing in the afterlife,” Bobby said, then shook his head. “Who am I kidding? I mean, why should all the fun stop just because I'm dead. I should have known the Winchesters would find a way to make me do all the leg work here, too.”

“They are just as blessed to have you in the afterlife as they were in life,” Cas said with a nod in Bobby's direction. “I know they both carry an ache inside them, for everyone of course, but for you in particular.”

“Well, that's not a happy thought,” Bobby snorted. “I can tell you ain't the type of comforting angel.”

“No, I was more the holy wrath type,” Cas said. “We left the comforting to the angels who had been assigned that particular task.”

“Still, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Just as Bobby said it they felt a faint rumble to the road beneath them. They both squinted out of the front window and Cas turned again to look behind them.

“You should drive faster,” Cas said. “A lot faster.”

“What? Why?” Bobby said, trying to make out what he was seeing in the rear view mirror.

“A favorite of divine justice was always the flood,” Cas told him. “It's trying to overtake us now,” he imparted as he continued to stare out the back window.

“Balls!” Bobby retorted and put the pedal to the floor.

**

Wondering the back roads of Jimmy's childhood was as about as exciting as it sounded. Dean suggested they find a car so he could teach Jimmy how to hot wire it, but Jimmy looked slightly scandalized so he dropped it. Instead they were walking beside a wire fence that was keeping several sleepy-looking cows at bay. They both heard something on the road in front of him. It sounded like someone riding a horse toward them and they looked at each other and stopped to see what might be heading their way. They didn't have to wait long as a lone rider on a large bay horse came galloping up and stopped just short of them and the rider dismounted, reaching up to adjust his hat before he gave the horse a fond slap on the neck and started walking their way.

Dean and Jimmy just stood there, glanced at each other once again and then back at the man that came up to them.

“You boys don't look like the sort that's out to start trouble,” John Wayne said to them, “so I guess I got to ask you what you're doing out here.”

Dean and Jimmy both experienced a little fan orgasm, and both of them scrambled to come up with the right thing to say.

“I loved you in the Sons of Katie Elder!” Dean cried just as Jimmy came out with. “I loved you in The Longest Day!”

“The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance!” Dean cried.

“They Were Expendable!” Jimmy countered.

“True Grit,” Dean said baring his teeth.

“Sands of Iwo Jima,” Jimmy said, getting in his face.

“Easy fellas, easy,” the Duke said, holding up placating hands. “I appreciate that you're fans, but that's not answering my question about what you're doing out here.”

“Oh, well,” Dean said, hesitating to come up with one of his brilliant lies because this was John Wayne, and you didn't lie to the Duke.

Jimmy, on the other hand, folded like a napkin. “We're trying to find a path to the Garden,” and he gave John Wayne big guileless eyes, because that seemed to be the primary weapon in Jimmy's arsenal.

“For sightseeing purposes,” Dean tried to weasel, “we're not looking for trouble.”

“You two fellows wouldn't be Dean Winchester and Castiel, which is a right funny name,” John Wayne said, hooking his thumbs into his belt and leveling a hard gaze at the two of them.

“Uh, on the off chance we are, what would happen?” Dean asked.

“I hate it, fellas, but if you don't turn back and go the other way, we'll have trouble. And you look like a decent sort, you said you didn't want trouble. So let's be gentlemen about this, and you two be on your way,” the Duke told them.

This sucked. Dean didn't want to fight the Duke and Jimmy would probably just throw his hands up and plead with the Duke not to hit him in the face. Fighting with the Duke in heaven had to be all sorts of not good marks on his report card. He gave a sigh.

“I can't do that,” Dean said sort of dejectedly, and then he threw a punch. 

The Duke blocked it easily and threw a punch of his own which connected solidly with Dean's jaw. Jimmy stood by, eyes huge. 

“Don't just stand there, run, you moron!” Dean yelled at him, even as he backed down the road with John Wayne advancing. 

Jimmy needed no further prompting; he took off down the road. Dean, meanwhile, traded a few punches with a childhood idol and felt like a heel before he decided he should try to run off, too. He feigned to the right, then took off like his ass was on fire to the left and jumped the fence into the cow pasture. He heard the Duke whistle sharply behind him, and the big bay horse trotted over obediently, but instead of heading after Dean the Duke turned his horse back up the road and spurred it after Jimmy. As Dean ran across the cow pasture, he looked back just in time to see John Wayne snatch Jimmy Novak from the road and throw him over the front of his saddle.

Just fucking great.

**

“What is happening again?” Metatron stood in the garden, his eyes following the lines of a celestial computer system that only angels could see. Some of Joan of Arc's battalion milled around in the background touching things, and he made an impatient noise at them. It was nice of her to leave a security detail, but they were no more help than a pack of bulls in a china shop. The systems were alarmed by something happening, perhaps some breach, and he couldn't quite make out what they were trying to warn him of, just the quadrant of heaven where this supposedly not good thing was happening. It was starting to look like he might have to repopulate heaven with a few handy angels after all. This was all getting so tedious. It was then that John Wayne came in the door dragging Castiel by the elbow, and _finally_ perhaps he could get stuff done.

“Well done Mr. Wayne, very well done,” he exclaimed. Castiel looked around nervously and it struck Metatron that he looked sort of off, like he didn't know where he was and he hadn't said anything, hadn't offered any words of defiance and condemnation and that was very much not in character. He tilted his head. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Castiel? You and your little human friends planning some sort of ambush? It's not like it would do you any good, you know.” 

Castiel wet his lips and looked from Metatron to John Wayne and back. 

“That's not what I was led to believe. You need to stop this course of action, Metatron. You cannot possibly mean to keep our brothers and sisters from their home. This was not our Father's intent,” Castiel said, in Castiel's voice. But it was just all so suspect. 

“You're not Castiel,” Metatron said. “I think you're the soul of his vessel.” He saw the flinch and sighed dramatically. “I'm almost starting to regret these decisions, just ... you lot, watch him.” He waved at the soldiers nearby and two of them came forward, took the fake Castiel by his arms and marched him off into the garden, presumably to keep an eye on him.

“Nice try, Mr. Wayne, he's a slippery one. Did you happen to see Dean Winchester?” Metatron asked.

“I did. Boy took off on me and you'd said you had more interest in the other one, but give me a little time, I'll likely find him. He doesn't strike me as someone to abandon his friends,” the Duke said, looking a little impressed. Metatron rolled his eyes; he was pretty sure one of the great mysteries of this millennium would be why everyone was in love with Dean Winchester.

“As you say, just find him, bring him back here. I need to chat with him,” Metatron sighed. The Duke tipped his hat and left, and Metatron turned back to the bleeping air around him in exasperation.

** 

The water slammed them through the double doors and then they both tumbled in opposite directions. Ash managed to grab a door jamb and push his head above water. He didn't have the air to yell Pamela's name. He held on until his fingers started to go numb, until he was sure it was hasta la vista for him but the pressure of the water began to wane, and within moments his feet hit the ground and he gasped raggedly, looking around. There was no sign of Pamela. This was very not good. This was someone knowing they were coming and sending out the posse. This was human versus angel in Heaven, and he had to face it, human wasn't the home team. But there were rules here, even if they weren't readily apparent. Heaven ran on the beauty of mathematics, and that he could get behind. He was at MIT, mathematics personified, and all he had to do was find a computer.

**

They ditched the truck at the edge of the trees and ran. “I can't swim!” Cas informed Bobby over the roar of the water advancing from all sides. “Then climb a damn tree!” Bobby yelled back and paused to take his own advice. He was too old for this, dead, even, but he hauled himself up, limb over limb. He glanced back to see Cas doing the same thing in a tree adjacent, in the same clumsy manner as Bobby himself. The trees shook as the wave of water hit them. He heard a groan and a tumbling crash from the road where they had left the truck. He hung on hard, wrapping his arms around the trunk as far as he could. He couldn't look back to check on Cas; he had to just hope the idjit was ok. It went on for an indeterminate amount of time. The trees shook and swayed and bent; he heard cracking all around him and screwed his eyes shut tight and then slowly, finally, the surge dissipated and he took a moment to breathe before slowly looking around. He gave a sigh of relief and sagged when he saw Cas still in his tree. They looked at each other.

“That was unpleasant,” Cas informed him. You could take the angel out of the boy, but the boy still kept all his catchphrases, it seemed.

**

It occurred to Sam that just setting out without proper planning might have been a bad idea. His mind skipped around to various scenarios like starving to death or oxygen deprivation, like those poor bastards on Mt. Everest. Yes, he might have been a little hasty with this venture. But it was too late now; he supposed he thought divine intervention might turn this into an escalator, but that didn't seem to be the case. He couldn't remember if Jacob actually climbed the ladder either. He might just have seen it, and he winced to think that this was something Dean was probably more versed in than he was; because Dean read it with every intention of memorizing it for his game while Sam had read it a while ago and hadn't visited it since to refresh his memory. He thought maybe Jacob just saw angels going up and down it; yeah, so if that was the case he was breaking new ground. As if being named Winchester wasn't groundbreaking enough. He wondered what Mary Patricia was doing, and why Mary Patricia was so invested; they'd barely known her a week, maybe not even that long. Mary Patricia and her accent and her red hair in a bob and her glasses; Mary Patricia and wow, what she could do with her tongue. That was talent and Sam wasn't afraid to admit it. He continued on a while with his thoughts and was looking down and studying the stairs astutely when he saw a pair of feet. He jerked his head up and there, before him stood a man. They regarded each other for a few moments. The man was dressed in what appeared to be period costume, like you would see in the movies. The shoes were ornate with a large buckle, and he wore white stockings and knee pants with the buttons. He had on a tailored coat and a vest and ruffled sleeves pocking out of the arms of his coat and all ruffles at his throat. After a while it didn't appear as if he was wearing a wig; his hair was sort of curled up on the ends. It was like looking at someone out of one of those old movies with a French setting.

“This is very unexpected,” the man said with a French accent and Sam congratulated himself on being very observant.

“Yeah I'm sure it is,” Sam told him, “uh can I ask you a question, how far is it to the top?”

The Frenchman just smiled.

**

Dean crashed through the trees. No reason to hold back now, the Duke had Jimmy. He ran what he thought was parallel to the road, hoping to somehow cut them off; that horse didn't look all that fast, but when he turned back in the direction he thought the road would be, he had ended up at the edge of another field. He stopped and looked around wildly. Fuck! Then he heard another body crashing through the trees and before he could react, Jo ran out of the trees into the field a few feet away. 

“Fuck!” she said.

“Jo!” he yelled.

“Dean! Joan of Arc is chasing Mom and I can't find my way back,” she screamed, flapping her arms.

“John Wayne just kidnapped Jimmy and I don't know where the fuck I am either,” Dean screamed back, but refrained from the arm flapping. That was a girls and Cas thing.

The ran over to each other, grabbed each other and just stood there panting a few moments.

“You good now?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “you good now?” 

“I'm good.” And they released each other and looked around.

“Did you say Joan of Arc, as in, _the_ Joan of Arc who led armies as a teenage girl?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, and did you say John Wayne as in _the_ John Wayne, the Duke, the king of the Saturday matinee?” she asked in return.

“Yeah,” Dean grinned, “he punched me!”

“Why is it you get all the luck?” she sneered. “I want him to punch me.”

“Well, maybe we can find him and you can piss him off,” Dean offered, “you're good at pissing people off.”

“He won't punch me, I'm a girl, he has a thing you know growing up in the era of you gotta be nice to girls,” Jo sighed.

“Oh, that sucks,” Dean commiserated.

“I know, _you_ can piss him off and duck and I'll stand right behind you,” Jo cried, “that would work, it's happened before!”

“Okay, you're on,” Dean said, “but we gotta find him and Jimmy first.”

“We gotta find my mom and Joan of Arc first. She had a sword, she punches with a sword,” Jo said with a duck of her head and a raised eyebrow.

“Ah, yeah, okay, Ellen first then,” Dean said and they turned to walk in opposite directions, then they had a squabble about it and then Dean just used height and upper body strength to overwhelm Jo's argument and dragged her along.

**

Ellen stayed hidden most of the day in the woods, and as it started to get dark she decided she should move. She'd managed to duck Joan of Arc, but she wasn't sure for how long. She was probably still lurking out there waiting to insult feminism and do something outrageous like try to run Ellen through with a sword. Well, Ellen wasn't having it, but still, having no weapon, it was better to hide and hope that Joan of Arc just went away, so that is what she did. She sure hoped Jo had made more progress.

She seemed to be alone; she hugged the wood line until she found a dirt road that ran alongside a small creek and she followed it. She wondered how safe Heaven would be after dar,k because it wasn't like Heaven would have anything in the dark that would be out for human blood. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate was it? She'd just met a antique woman on horseback who would have been more than happy to shed her blood and her head and other bodily parts. She wondered if dismemberment would hurt in Heaven? Overall, she wondered how this was her afterlife in Heaven: doing the same thing she'd been doing on earth. It was really a bitch if she thought about it hard enough.

It wasn't long before she happened on the outskirts of a small town; it seemed quiet enough. There were a few people about but mostly they just went about their scripted routines and paid her no mind. She'd realized as she crossed boundaries that a person's heaven was just that, one person's heaven, and the players in that heaven interacted only with the person to whom the heaven was prescribed. It was a bit irritating, but overall convenient not to have to explain herself over and over again. It was almost impossible to figure out the generator of any particular heaven; she could never guess who the main player happened to be. So she just walked, not getting tired, not getting hungry, not really registering any bodily restriction. This would have been nice to have on earth.

She kept herself from dwelling on Jo. Jo was capable and competent, fierce and brilliant, Jo was just as resourceful as Ellen had always imagined her and for a little bit that was worrisome. Was this really Jo, or an idealized Jo Ellen was creating in her own heaven? But Jo had sass and opinions and was obstinate enough to be Bill's daughter, so that gave her some comfort. If she was dreaming up a Jo to populate her heaven, she'd be a damn sight more cooperative and respectful. It was her daughter's flaws that made her believable. She kept walking, and she walked right out of night in one heaven and into the daylight in the next heaven. She should really find that more disconcerting. It was also a little strange that she happened upon a man walking on the same road. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket like that jacket of Dean's daddy's that he used to wear, and he was sporting some big eighties hair. When she got close to him he turned his head slightly, then stopped and half-turned to face her. She knew this guy. She knew him and he smiled at her when she came close enough and she came to a stop. Well, damn.

“Michael Landon?” she asked.

“Jonathan Smith,” he replied. “It looks like we're going the same way.”

“Are you sure you're not Michael Landon?” she pressed. “I was a big fan of Little House on the Prairie back in the day.” It struck her then that Michael Landon had another show, one from the eighties, one where he played an angel. No, really? Seriously? “Is this the highway to heaven?” she asked with a little grin.

“So I've been told,” he said. “There's a garden a few miles this way.” He jerked his thumb up the road. “I hear something's going on.”

“No one is going to believe me when I tell them this,” Ellen said, mostly to herself. “It just so happens I'm looking for a garden, too.”

“Come on,” he said. “The walk isn't bad, but the company is better.”

Wow, Michael Landon. She wished she had a phone with a working camera.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Garama


	9. Behind the blameless trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High places through back doors

“Now that this has all been explained as a hypothetical scenario, General Eisenhower, I'd really like your advice.”

It was 1945 and he'd finally received word of the unconditional surrender of the Germans. He'd been appointed Military Governor of the US Occupation Forces in Frankfurt am Maim and he had yet to discover the atrocities behind the walls of such places as Auschwitz-Birkenau and Dachau. He didn't know that he never got quite that far in this loop, preferring the surrender as the happy memory.

“Air strike,” the General offered, by means of trying to politely hold up his end of the conversation, all the while wishing this annoying little man would leave. Whose bright idea was it to give him an appointment anyways? “I'm very busy, Marv, and I really don't have time to play at war when I'm actively in one,” he said gruffly.

“Completely understandable, which is why I'll be taking my leave. It was a pleasure talking to you,” Marv said, levering himself up out of his chair. The General would have said something in parting, but suddenly the man was just gone. Very odd, but thoughts of his next action as newly appointed governor swept the concern away.

**

There were noises outside the warehouse and Mary Patricia briefly considered fleeing as Sam had told her, but no, she couldn't do that. There wasn't much in the way of weapons here, but she found a busted piece of two by four that was maybe two by one now and gripped it tightly in her hands. She watched the door at the end of the warehouse swing open slowly, and she looked at the very obvious staircase to Heaven there in the middle of the abandoned structure and figured there was no way to really talk around this. She licked her lips and crouched by the circle because the circle was important and she didn't want Sam to fall a million stories to his death, she really didn't, she sort of liked him. 

She heard voices now, quiet voices, and that told her there were more than one of whoever was lurking out there. Then a figure appeared in the doorway and stepped cautiously inside. After a few more steps in, she noticed the figure was a woman, not very tall, hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing normal sorts of clothing. Nothing looked spooky or demony or scary about her at all. In fact, Mary Patricia sort of liked the jean jacket she was wearing and her pointy-toed boots. Maybe she was just lost or something. Then another figure slipped in after her, and another. These were men, and again, they looked rather normal, but she gripped her piece of wood even tighter. Now she could hear them speaking better, but she still didn't know what they were saying because they were speaking something that sounded a lot like a lot of short random words. Then one of the men headed right for her and the other two started as they saw her and the woman trotted forward too, laying a hand on the man's arm and pulling him to a halt.

“Is this your spell, human?” the man said angrily and the woman made a shushing sound and stepped in front of him.

“We mean you no harm,” she said, “but tell me, how has this come to be?” She looked up at the staircase rather reverently.

“Uh, a Winchester,” Mary Patricia ventured, figured a little name-dropping might help.

“Winchester?” The man spat and clenched his fists. Behind him the other man laid a hand on his shoulder.

“That's enough, Barakiel,” the woman said, “and strangely, it's not a surprise. Please don't be afraid. I am Alat, and these are my brothers, Barakiel and Chayo. We were pulled here by this anomaly.”

“Why should humans have access to what we are denied?” Barakiel insisted. “It's not right!”

“Brother,” Chayo said behind them, “please try to be calm and hear what the human has to say.”

“My name is not 'human', you know, it's Mary Patricia,” Mary Patricia said, standing up straight now but not letting go of her piece of wood. “Look, I'm very new to all this business and if you'd like my honest opinion I'd just rather have never know, _but_ , since I'm here now and this is what it is, I want you to know you can't mess with this stuff because it might make this stairway go away and there is a Winchester up there, and if he goes splat, the other one will be very, very cross.”

“We've no intention of disrupting anything,” Alat said. She then nodded to Chayo who pulled out a cell phone and stepped away from the little group and began making phone calls. “We'd like to determine if it is a way to get into heaven. Would you allow us the opportunity?”

“Why? I mean why should I let you, how do I even know who you are?” Mary Patricia said, feeling very uneasy in her role as authoritarian; but Sam had left her in charge so in charge she would be.

“I regret I no longer have wings to show you,” the woman said with a small, sad smile. “But I can still perform some minor miracles? Would something of that nature suffice?”

Mary Patricia looked slowly from her to the very uptight man and to the man on the cell phone, then back to her. 

“What? You're saying you're angels? Like angels from heaven?” Mary Patricia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Okay, make with the miracle and we'll talk.”

**

“Perhaps you would like a break,” said the Frenchman. He then stopped, turned and sat on one of the stairs, and looked up at Sam expectantly. 

Sam paused, looked up at the vast stairway before him stretching up out of sight, and sighed. He turned and sat himself, clasping his hands between his knees. The Frenchman had been infuriatingly vague about answering any questions and had only been walking along beside Sam, making light small talk, for the last half hour or so. Sam could no longer see the bottom of the stairs and he felt uncomfortably in the middle of nowhere in mid-air. That could be trouble later. He gave a start when he noticed the stairs had started to move, more or less like a celestial escalator. He turned to the Frenchman and the man merely smiled at him and gave a little shrug. 

“This way, time won't be lost while we have a break,” the man said and Sam started to thank him but he held up his hand. “Do not be so hasty, my friend, for there are things I must ask of you. Surely you didn't think passage to heaven would be open to just anyone?”

“I wasn't even sure the crazy ass spell would work,” Sam said with a snort, “and I guess I'm not the most likely candidate to get into heaven; but I'm game, so shoot.”

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness,” the frenchman said and smiled. “That was Mark Twain.”

Sam gave a half-laugh. “I feel like I should be quoting back to you, but that's what my brother does with Cas. It's surprising how good he is at it.” Sam rubbed the back of one of his hands with the thumb of the other.

“What is it you will do when you reach Heaven?” the Frenchman asked. “I ask more out of curiosity then a need to know; many people make this journey, but very, very few do it with a purpose. Most people find themselves here, as you know, when their earthly bodies give out.” He gave Sam's arm a solid pat. “You still seem to have many years left, so, you don't undertake this journey for the peace of salvation. And more notably, you take this journey by ladder, which is a seldom used route. There was a time it was exclusively for angels, but so few of them think they need contemplation nowadays; and well, there are none of them left. So, I'm glad for the company of someone who plans a return visit to earth, or at least that's my presumption.”

“So you're not an angel,” Sam said. “I wasn't sure and I'm not sure if it's rude to ask.”

“I'm not an angel,” the frenchman said, “I am a ferryman. Before you ask, a ferry doesn't have to be by boat over water; a ferry is passage at its root and I am here to make sure the passengers find their way. It's Heaven's policy that if you manage to seek a way in, at least you get there. No guarantee you can stay, but they are not my rules.”

“Long story short, my brother was taken to Heaven, probably against his will, and I'm trying to get him back,” Sam said and shrugged. “We are probably the only two people I know who want a way out of Heaven.”

“Well, I see,” the Frenchman said, “it's not a light thing when a living soul is taken to heaven, but then again, things around here have been very odd lately. So a selfless pursuit of your brother with no thought other than that; it rings of a just cause and that's my only test. I'm not here to judge, merely to ferry. I've done nothing but ferry for the entirety of my existence.” 

“So do we get to ride the whole way to heaven? And uh, how long does it take?” Sam tried again, hoping that now that they were chatting he might get some actual information.

“As long as it needs to take,” the frenchman said pleasantly. “Tired of my company already? I could be a more demanding person and exact a toll from you; but that is in another incarnation, a less pleasant one, and sometimes I prefer being more benevolent as it were.”

Sam dug in his pockets. He had half a roll of butter rum Life Savers, a demon slaying knife, a compass, a pocket knife, a stray bullet, twenty-seven cents in change and some lint. He took a life saver, offered one to the frenchman who took it politely.

“Good enough?” Sam asked. “Wasn't that in ancient Greece? A coin in the mouth to pay the ferryman Charon to take you across the river Styx?”

“Oh yes, and if you were unburied or if you didn't have a coin you had to wander the shores for a hundred years before a tribunal was called to see if you were permitted passage.” The frenchman shrugged, “All very complicated and boring if you ask my opinion; but I was only doing my job.”

“Charon was the ferryman for Hell,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you are a double agent?”

“Creatures like me really don't pick sides, we just do,” the ferryman said.

“Like independent contractors,” Sam said. “So, in theory you can be negotiated with by mortals?”

“I do like butter rum Life Savers,” the ferryman said.

**

Up, go up, go up. She managed to hang onto a stair railing and as the water gave way a bit, she got her feet on the steps and up and up she went until she hit the roof, she collapsed there, panting. Fuck, you weren't supposed to have to be physically assertive in heaven. Did they just make this shit up as they went along? Apparently so! Pamela pushed her wet hair out of her face and looked down at the parking lot full of red Corvettes. Really, Ash, really? She shook her head. Still, she didn't know where she was and hanging around here didn't seem to be a good plan. She located a maintenance ladder that took her down to the next level and she was able to get in through an access door. She cautiously walked the wet corridors until she found the steps to the ground level. Then she was out, across the parking lot and driving a red Corvette away from nerd central. It wasn't long before she spotted two figures walking along the side of the road. When she slowed down she saw one of them was Ellen and the other was a man who looked vaguely familiar, but whom she couldn't quite place. 

“Going my way?” she called out after she rolled down the window. “It's a bitch it's a two seater, you comfortable riding in his lap?”

Ellen pulled the car door open, and turned to look at her traveling companion, but he just smiled and gave a little wave and continued walking. She shrugged and hopped in with Pamela.

“Where do you think we should be heading?” Pamela asked as they started to pull away. 

“Hell if I know. That way,” she pointed straight ahead, “and open this baby up, I've always wanted to see what they'd do when you floored them.” 

Pamela complied.

**

Jimmy sat hugging his knees while a group of men wearing armor milled around in a small clearing. They didn't pay him much attention after dumping him to sit on the ground. The didn't restrain him, check him for weapons or even speak to him. It was clear they didn't consider him a threat. Every so often he would scoot back just a little; no one seemed to mind. The men spoke among themselves in French. They looked battle-scarred and worn and not the type to be happy to be asked to babysit. That at least seemed to be to his advantage. They were too good to mind a prisoner, and so said prisoner kept scooting back until he could duck under the bush, and then he crept away. He never even heard one of them voice an alarm about his absence. He spent some time crawling under thick bushes and ducking tangled limbs and vines. It was so easy to get lost in this dense growth and the thick miasma that seemed to hang over it. When he finally found a small clearing, he got to his feet and brushed off his knees and palms. There were still no alarms, no voices shouting to announce his escape: it all felt a little lackluster and he was sort of disappointed not to be a proper fugitive. Still, from the confused way Metatron had mumbled to himself and the restless milling of the soldiers, it didn't seem there was really any proper organization. Not that he thought that was a particular advantage, power unchecked was just as bad as power with proper control in the right circumstances. There was no one here to see that balance, and it made him uneasy. He picked his way down what seemed to be a path and blundered into a cascade of colored blooms, colors of every description, pedals of all shapes and sizes. 

He stood there stunned for a few moments, turning a slow circle, trying to take it all in with just his eyes and knowing that would never be enough. It was then he noticed the pricking along his spine, the fine hairs on the back of his neck itching; almost as if something were seeking his attention. He tried to pick a direction but doubted his own intuition in the decision, so the path of sorts became the only alternative, and he decided to stick with it and made his way slowly back into the canopy of trees and vines. It wasn't long before he came upon gently flowing water, a small stream with a defined embankment. There, just on the other side of the stream was a sturdy flowering bush. The flowers were heavily hanging downward trumpets, slender and white, almost glowing. Jimmy remembered flowers like this back home. One of his neighbors had a few of the towering plants in his back yard; they'd just called them trumpet trees for lack of the proper name. He took a few steps away, still looking toward the bush when the flowers on the bush all lifted and turned in his direction. Jimmy was sure the flowers on the bushes at home had never done such a thing. A very odd feeling settled over him, something like recognition, and he stood in a small daze of confusion, not knowing why he had this odd feeling or what it actually meant. He felt uncomfortable that a bush was apparently staring at him. He tried moving a little further away and the flowers turned with him. The feeling intensified and he slowly walked back up the embankment to stand directly opposite the bush. He sat then, absently pulling off his socks and shoes, rolling his pants up, wondering why he was bothering to do this, but just accepting that this was his way of coping with a fantastical situation. There was nothing about this that wasn't a conjecture of impossibility. He was dead and in Heaven and briefly held prisoner by a mad angel who had ejected all the other angels from Heaven. He was indirectly helping an angel who was pretty much the cause of his demise alongside a still living human hunter and really, what could sitting down and taking off his socks and shoes and rolling up his pants to cross a stream do to cancel out any of that? But somehow, it did, and he waded carefully across the stream, feet feeling out the smooth stones and sand until he stood directly below the bush, looking up at it. The bush let down its flowers to drape over his head and his shoulder and suddenly he knew why it recognized him.

**

The frenchman furrowed his brow, looked down the steps behind them and tilted his head. 

“We are going to have company,” he said, patting Sam's arm. 

“What, something is coming up the ladder?” Sam turned around. He tried to peer down the way they'd come, but could see nothing.

“Very many somethings, all with great haste,” the Frenchman said, turning to continue on, “it's probably best not to worry about it.”

Sam reluctantly turned to follow.

**

Mary Patricia was losing count and she couldn't keep up with the names. Amabriel, Myhel, Bohel, Phannel, all these 'el' things seem to run together. Finally there had been a Dumah and it was odd that one she could remember. But as soon as Alat had taken the first cautious step onto the ladder, they began pouring in from every where. Alat called it a garrison and Mary Patricia certainly hoped Sam wouldn't be very angry with her, there was really little she could do to stop them and after all, weren't angels supposed to be in Heaven? The minor miracle had turned out to be turning her bottle of water into a nice, crisp chardonnay and she did recall somewhere in the Bible that turning water into wine was a miracle. For some other odd reason she had 'When the Saints Come Marching in' stuck in her head, too. Seemed somehow appropriate.

**  
Bobby and Cas both turned their heads to look over their shoulders at the roar of an engine and both scrambled off the road just in time for a cherry red Corvette to come hurtling past them. It hit the brakes and fishtailed in the road, coming to a stop a few yards away and throbbing with intent and power. The window rolled down and Pamela stuck her head out. 

“Hey!” She called and waved, “Sorry for almost hitting you,” she supplied. Ellen then popped up over the roof, having climbed out her window to sit on the door. 

“What in blue tarnation are you two doing in that thing?” Bobby asked. He and Cas walked over to the car.

“Seeing how fast we could go,” Pamela told him. “We can go pretty damn fast.”

“I can see that,” Bobby said, “but it's a damn two-seater.”

“There's the trunk,” Ellen said with a shrug. “You're already dead, not like you're going to suffocate.”

“I don't care to spoon with Cas,” Bobby said with a snort. “Trunk in this thing is gonna be tiny.”

Ellen grinned as Cas squinted at Bobby, then looked the car over. “This would be a much faster transport,” Cas said slowly, “I don't mind spooning for the cause.”

“Well I do,” Bobby sputtered. “Ellen Harvelle, you got a problem with my lap?”

“Not at all,” Ellen said, climbing out of the car altogether and opening the door.

Pamela looked at Cas and gave a shrug. “Guess you get to be the body in the trunk,” she said, hitting the lever to pop it open. Cas went to inspect the trunk, then Bobby came to give him a little shove and remind him it was for the cause, and they got him in and shut the lid and Ellen punched Bobby in the arm as he climbed into the car. She squeezed in, arranging herself in his lap and he shut the door. Then Pamela gave them a grin and a low whistle and floored it, and they all ignored the thump of something hitting the panel behind their seats.

** 

Jo looked out across the field they were walking through, raised her hand to shield her eyes and pointed.

“Hey, is that a red Corvette?” She asked Dean and he paused and similarly shielded his eyes to look.

“Yeah,” Dean said, “and it is hauling ass,” and without a moment's hesitation, he took off toward the fence. Jo yelped behind him and ran to catch up. Dean scrambled over it, stopped to help Jo and they made it to the side of the road just after the car roared by. Dean ran out into the middle of it, waved his arms and jumped up and down.

“How do we know who that is?” Jo asked him, then heard the car brake hard, rev up and suddenly shudder into reverse. It came backing down the road toward them almost as fast as it had gone by them.

“It's a red Corvette in Heaven, Jo,” Dean answered, “it has to be somebody kick-ass.”

The Corvette stopped a little ways from them and Ellen stuck her head out the window. “Joanna-Beth!” she said.

“Hey, you were right!” Jo said, trotting for the car. Dean followed her over. Jo hugged her mother through the window and Dean leaned an arm on the roof to peer inside.

“Damn, Bobby, you have skills I didn't know you had,” Dean grinned. Bobby snorted, Ellen frowned and Pamela grinned.

“Uh, where's Cas?” Dean asked next. The last he knew Bobby had paired up with Cas for the trip to the garden.

“He's in the trunk,” Pamela said and hit the lever to pop it open. “He's been rattling around back there, see if he's okay.”

“The trunk?” Dean said, pushing off and heading back that way, “You put him in the trunk?” he asked, all offended on Cas' behalf. 

“It's a two-seater!” Ellen called after him. 

Dean pushed the trunk up and Cas blinked up at him, curled up and hugging his knees. “Hello, Dean,” he said gravely, like he wasn't playing body in the trunk of a red Corvette on a road in Heaven. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, then he leaned down, kissed the side of Cas' head, and Cas made a huff. “What? Are you still pissed at me?”

“Are you asking if I still wish for you to return to Earth? If that is what you mean, then yes, I'm still pissed at you,” Cas said, squinting up at him.

So Dean shut the trunk and came back to the door. “He's fine,” he told the others, “but how are Jo and I going to get in this thing? Trunk is all taken up with just one pissy ex-angel.”

“I can probably get on that little shelf under the back window,” Jo volunteered, so Bobby and Ellen got out and Jo climbed in and managed to wedge herself onto the tiny shelf. She gave them a strained smile and a thumbs-up. “Okay, not so great, but I'm dead, right? Doesn't matter.” So Bobby and Ellen got back in and Dean stood there blinking at them.

“You could ride _on_ the trunk,” Pamela suggested. 

“Or, since you and Cas are sweet on each other, you could try squeezing into the trunk with him,” Bobby said. “That seems safer, not that means anything up here.” So they opened the trunk again and Cas scowled up at Dean and Bobby and Ellen. Then Dean started to try and squeeze into the trunk with him and Cas made a lot of stilted protests and squirmed.

“Quit yer bitchin',” Bobby told him, and Ellen made an exasperated sound and reached into the trunk to help push Dean in, and finally, somehow they made it work. No one was sure how, and Bobby could no longer look at them, and Ellen grinned, gave them a thumbs up and shut the trunk. Then she and Bobby got back in the car and shut the door.

“This has got to be the most expensive clown car ever,” Jo said from her shelf. “Too bad there isn't any Guinness book of World Records up here, six people in a two-seater.”

“Let's find this Metatron and kick his ass before we pick up more hitchhikers,” Bobby groused, “and I haven't failed to notice someone lost Jimmy. And just where is Ash?”

Pamela gave them a tight smile, then floored it.

**

There was darkness in the trunk, and the sounds of heavy breathing and not enough room to do much but just lie there, or, well, that's at least what Cas thought.

“What are you doing with your hand?” he asked abruptly. “I don't think that's appropriate given the current situation.”

“There isn't anywhere else to put it,” Dean said behind him, “and it's not like you complained before.”

“I'm still 'pissed' at you, remember? You shut the trunk lid on me out of spite.” Cas grumbled and tried to squirm, but it was impossible. “I'm not amused, Dean, you shouldn't be … oh …”

“See? Why are you complaining? It's like the grand last night on Earth gesture,” Dean said, licking at the back of Cas' neck.

“We're not on Earth, and that is touchy subject right now, so just stop.” Cas managed to move his hand enough to swat at Dean's hand. Dean sighed and stilled all motion, but kept his nose pressed to the back of Cas' neck.

“You shouldn't be here,” Cas pressed.

“Don't start, I am, and there isn't anything to be done about it now. Let it go, Cas, as if I'd let you do this alone. And don't say you're not alone because of the mod squad we got going on here, you know what I mean.” Dean snorted against Cas' neck and Cas twitched. “Just let me be stupidly in love with you, can you do that?”

“So my gestures of stupid love are somehow less notable then your own?” Cas said, snippy. “Not wanting you to be absorbed is less championing the cause of stupid love then throwing yourself headlong into danger with a gang of friends who are already dead? I'm supposed to be your equal now, Dean. We're humans together, so I get to make the same grand, heedlessly noble, stupidly in love gestures as you do!”

Dean started laughing. His whole body shook with it and he tried to pull Cas closer, as if that was even possible, and Cas felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. One of the highlights of Cas' human existence had been Dean's laughter.

“It isn't funny,” Cas grumbled because that was what he did in these situations. The grumpier he was, the more of Dean's laughter he was rewarded with. 

“Yes, it is,” Dean sputtered. Then he pushed his head forward and nosed Cas' ear and Cas tried to push him off and they kept at it a moment. Then they both just lay there in the moment. 

“You know we can keep going on with our 'don't want to lose you's' until we're blue in the face,” Dean said quietly. “The whole point is we have to stick with each other. We always have, good or bad. You know it and I know, we're not what we used to be, we're this now: useless without each other. Maybe that's not right or healthy or whatever, but I'm done Cas, I'm done doing it alone. So either I'm here with you or you're there with me or we both cease to exist. You're not going to talk me out of it, either, so just accept it.” Dean pressed a kiss then against Cas' ear.

Cas had a hand on Dean's arm around him and he rubbed it. “Fine,” he said in his best, offended, snotty voice. He only did it for Dean's benefit, to let Dean have his little victory. Cas wasn't sure how Dean didn't know he always had his victory and Cas would do anything for his happiness.

“Thank you, baby,” Dean said, surprising Cas with sincerity. “It makes me feel good to know you can't live without me, either.”

“Well, we're both unhealthy messes,” Cas grumbled, “and when we go back home we'll let Sam lecture us on it.”

Dean groaned behind him.

**

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, letting Cas' grace sooth over him in the form of flowers. It was so _peaceful_ here, so lulling in its serenity that Jimmy almost made the decision to never leave. But he couldn't do that; his heart knew what he had to do. He lifted one hand, palm up, and one of the flowers laid across it gently. He curled his fingers around it and plucked it from the bush.

**

The frenchman stopped Sam with a hand on his arm. Sam turned instinctively to see the figures coming up the ladder behind them at a jog.

“Who are they?” he asked, tensing up, this could be fight or flight. The first one to come close to them was a woman with long brown hair in a pony tail. She stopped, held up her hand, and the signal traveled down the line. Sam wet his lips, found his voice. “Are you angels?” he asked because he couldn't think of what else to say.

“Mary Patricia has changed us with your care, Sam Winchester,” the woman said. “I am Alat, these are members of my garrison,” she gestured behind her. “We would like you to lead us home.”

How insane this was, how not too long ago he had housed the antithesis of everything they stood for, everything they were? “Me, really? You do know who I am?” he said cautiously. He supposed this was a big risk, because how could they not know and he wondered what it would be like to fall from the ladder, how far down it might be if they decided to take that route.

“Did you not sacrifice yourself and all that you were to cage the Devil?” Alat said, with a slight tilt of her head. Sam's eyebrows rose a little in surprise and he nodded slightly.

“I don't know what you think of the rest of us,” Alat said, “but that's good enough for me, lead on.”

When Sam turned, the frenchman was gone, but he squared his jaw and led them on.

**

A second flower lowered to his hand, so Jimmy picked it.

**

The last straw was of course when he felt the tiny tug of his spell, the loosening of it, like a spool of thread sat on the table untethered. How the coils would just slowly, gently unwind and sag. How? How was this possible? All he wanted was peace and quiet and the tranquility of his home without the machinations of his siblings. He might understand a bit better now the subtle blind panic that had overtaken the archangels when their Father left; it really was a floundering sensation to have sudden responsibility. He tugged absently on the zipper of the sweater his vessel habitually wore. He looked around at the French soldiers with disinterest. Something was off. He squinted for a moment, trying to place what was supposed to be there; something that had been there before. Then it dawned on him.

“Where is the soul you were supposed to be watching?” he asked them slowly. The nearest soldier also looked around with disinterest, interrupted from his card game, and shrugged.

Metatron set his jaw. This was really starting to get out of hand. Maybe it was time he did something more drastic.

**

Ash found a way in through a back door, metaphorically speaking. There were no weak links in heavenly software, but there were rather glaring loopholes if you knew where to look; once he had a tentative access to the endless waves of intent that might not be there anymore, he looked for residual trails to follow. Nothing as powerful and universally connected as an angel left no trace of itself behind, and all the traces left behind from thousands of angels were a significant amount indeed. There were mostly flat lines on the actual monitoring systems now: nothing to monitor with no angels tromping around heaven, so instead he started trying to worm his way into the system that tracked souls. That was his intention until there was suddenly a huge fucking blip of motion, of detection. He backtracked to get a bearing on it, to try to figure out this surge of energy. It was so vivid and so right there all of a sudden where there had been nothing, and he looked at the huge wave of energy ghosting across the screen. The system didn't seem alarmed, it didn't ping, it didn't shriek; it just calmly spewed out a steady string of Enochian, computing along its merry way. Specs, there had to be specifications for this sort of energy mirage; the system just found a way around it, as if it was a common occurrence. So, it wasn't something that was out of the ordinary, it was something commonplace in heaven, it was something … holy shit, it was an angel and to the best of Ash's knowledge there was only one remaining angel in heaven and he was looking at its _true form_. Like there, all of a sudden, manifested and for some reason that made Ash all sorts of worried and uncomfortable. Time to find some particular human souls, _and fast_.

**

They ran out of road. There was simply no more road there. Pamela stared at the dense foliage ahead and gripped the steering wheel tightly, leaning forward a little.

“I appreciate the fact we're all dead,” Ellen spoke up, “but honey, dead or not, I don't want to wrap this little red death trap around a tree.”

“I'm with her,” Bobby said.

“Maybe if we all believe hard enough,” Jo piped up from her position crammed against the back window, “we can drive through the trees.”

“Don't start that,” Ellen said. “This wishing up stuff in Heaven always seems to work but not really work the way you want it to. Let's get out and see if Cas and Dean are still decent in the trunk.”

Bobby groaned at that, but they piled out of the car and pulled Jo from the car, then Pamela popped the trunk and Cas and Dean blinked up at them in confusion. Bobby still couldn't look at them, especially not now that Dean had his hands up Cas' shirt.

“Hey, enough of that,” Ellen groused and slapped at Dean's hands. Then she and Jo grabbed Cas and pulled him up enough so he could fall out of the trunk and they let Dean unfold himself and flail around to get out of the trunk on his own.

Once Dean was out and upright and smoothed down and Cas had his shirt mostly buttoned they all stood and stared at the forest in front of them.

“So now we go hiking?” Dean said. “Is this the garden?” He turned to look at Cas who by all logical means ought to be considered the heavenly authority on these things.

“It appears to be the outskirts,” Cas said slowly. “I suppose hiking is in order.”

“Great,” Pamela said, “I got on boots with heels. It amazes me that this shit still matters in heaven.” She went to lean against the Corvette's hood and pull them off to see if something could be done, and just then the Corvette's radio screeched to staticky life and white noise. They all turned to look at it, and a voice broke over the airwaves.

“Dudes, I got some bad news,” the radio spit at them, “the only angel is heaven is wearing his angel suit again, and by that I mean he's like powered up, like going from a semi-truck to Optimus Prime. This is like bad for you soul types and for that one still alive type we got with us.”

“Ash?” Pamela called, ducking down to stick her head in the window. “You okay?”

“Yeah, good to hear your voice, glad you didn't go down the drain, was that a rush or what?” the radio said. 

Ellen pushed her head in on the other side. “What was that? We got trouble heading our way?”

“I'm all hacked into the heavenly wide web and I got a handle on how to track things. This giant energy blip on my radar is heading your way,” he supplied. “I think some running and hiding might be in order.”

“Wait,” Ellen said, “how'd you find us?”

“Well, that's sort of the other bad thing,” Ash sighed out, “you got a beacon with you, sort of alive and righteous? He's sort like a blip on a cellular tower and I'm thinking if I can see him, other things can see him, too.”

“Fuck,” Ellen muttered, and Bobby, who'd come to stand beside her, swore softly under his breath.

Dean had crowded in beside Pamela and he looked at Ellen across the car, jaw set. “I think that just gave us a plan,” he said, pulling out and straightening up. “Makes me the head honcho of decoys. I go left, you guys go right and try to get to the nerve center.”

“Hang on a second,” Bobby said, also straightening up to look at Dean over the top of the car. “Let's not get too hasty.”

“Hasty is about all you got,” Ash stressed, “it's moving fast.”

“There isn't any time for this,” Dean shot back. “If we got a shot on this then we got to take it.” He looked at Jo and she smiled at him a little. “I'm surrounded by people who gave their all when it was needed and I'm not going to do any less. I can take the car and buy you some time, lead him the other way.”

“And if he catches you?” Bobby snorted, jaw tight, “what then?”

“If I'm coming to Heaven when I bite it then I'm already here,” Dean said. “So in my opinion it's not a big risk.”

“Unless he just absorbs you,” Cas said behind him, “drains your soul's energy and incorporates it into his own, then you cease to exist entirely.”

“Okay, so Cas sees an alternative ending that I didn't want to think about, go Cas. The fact remains it's the only plan we got!” Dean slapped the hood for emphasis.

“Better make with the plan,” Ash's voice cut across the static, “because you guys should be feeling something by now.”

No sooner had Ash said it, then a sudden stillness seem to overtake them. This feeling of electricity just under the edge of your skin radiating in all directions. The feeling of vastness behind you, and Dean thought, hysterically for a moment, this must have been how that guy in Jurassic Park felt when the tyrannosaurus rex was looming behind him before eating him off the toilet. Not the way Dean Winchester wanted to go. 

“Balls,” Bobby growled and grabbed Ellen's arm,”them's what's coming, get in the woods!” Pamela looked at Dean a long moment then turned away, followed by Jo. Cas just stood there.

“You got to go with them,” Dean said, yanking the door of the Corvette open, not looking at Cas directly. “I mean it, Cas, get a move on.”

“I know what I have to do,” Cas responded. “Allow me a moment to look at you and pray I see you again.”

“Hey, if you get home before me, I mean back to the bunker, I put a song on your iPod,” Dean said gruffly, sliding into the car and shutting the door. “On that list you got on it called 'Dean'. You really rival Samantha in girlness, you know that?”

“I'm not going to the bunker without you,” Cas started.

“The fuck you aren't, Sammy will need someone one if this goes south, I'm counting on you.” Dean looked at him.

“We're in this together.” Cas echoed Dean's words from earlier. “Together, Dean.”

Dean cranked the car, looked at him again with a small, sad smile. “Whatever it takes, Cas,” he said, and he threw the car into reverse, spun in on the road and floored it in the opposite direction. He kept his eyes on Cas' figure in the rear view until it disappeared.

**

Sam passed through a barrier. He felt it in every bone in his body and for a moment it was like walking through mud. The stairs beneath his feet gave way to grass and he stopped and looked around for a moment. Was this it? Was this Heaven? He turned back to look at the angels behind him. They were all standing on the stairs, and Sam walked back over, feeling the push again and stood on the top step.

“This is it,” he said. “So now what? Seems to be some kind of barrier here I have to push through.”

“I suppose we see if we can just walk into Heaven,” Alat said, she took a deep breath. “This vessel, her name is Sissy Guthrie.” She looked at Sam's questioning look. “She had no reason to allow me use of her body, but she took pity on me and helped me when I was alone and naked and fallen to Earth. Humans have such generous spirits, it makes me pause, is all, and I just wanted you to know her name. It seems I've grown a sentimentality since walking the Earth; a greater appreciation of my Father's creations. I guard a Hall, Samuel. I stand at its entrance with no knowledge of the passage of time and I watch the stewards run their errands. It's very peaceful. You have to realize I have not been on Earth in a very long time. I suppose I'm babbling because I don't know if I'll pass through the barrier and stand on the grounds of my home once again, or if the spell will disperse me or fling me back to earth, a trip I'm not sure I have enough strength to survive again; let alone Sissy Guthrie.”

Sam stood there a moment, tilted his head. “I don't think the spell works like that. I mean, if you were all flung from Heaven, and fell to earth, then it fulfilled its function, right? I mean, how would you be expected to get back other than how humans get here, you know, by death? That makes sense.”

There was quiet muttering amongst them now and Alat held up her hand. She nodded to one of the others with her and took a step up to stand beside Sam. 

“You go ahead,” she told him, “that way if something does happen you won't be caught in it.” 

Sam nodded, stepped through again and waited just on the other side. Alat took a deep breath, rolled her head on her shoulders and putting a hand up before her, stepped forward. Sam, on impulse, reached out and grabbed her hand, pulled her through and they stood blinking at each other on the other side.

In Heaven.

Sam grinned and then they had to jump back as the other angels began to pour through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Suchacat


	10. Wreathed in thunder, robed in light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boss will see you now.

His pockets were stuffed, his shirt was stuffed, he had stopped short of stuffing them into his pants. Now he walked through the woods carrying a bouquet of faintly glowing flowers larger than his head. He had no idea where he was going, but he felt pulled, so he just walked. The landscape around him changed, moved, parted to make way. He kept glancing around nervously, waiting for the other shoe to fall, for something to leap out and point an accusing finger. How dare he, a mere human soul, how dare he? Who did he think he was? 

The flowers shimmered and moved in his hands, his pockets, felt prickly and alive and alien. They clung to his fingers, pressed against his neck and under his chin. They knew him and it made his non-existent stomach knot. 

He picked his way through the foliage, still barefoot with his trousers rolled up from wading in the stream. He hadn't bothered to put his shoes or socks back on; why should he? He was _dead_ , this was _heaven_ , surely walking barefoot wasn't that hazardous here. Didn't mean he didn't hiss when he stepped on a rock or a twig or something else. Maybe he should go back for his shoes? He stopped a moment. No, why was he even thinking that? What was he even _doing_? He had living flowers _clinging_ to him, he was wandering in a vast wilderness and he was worried about old dress shoes from Payless Shoe Source? He shook his head. He needed a better perspective. What was _this?_ How was this his afterlife? How was this his his rest, his reward, his _anything_? Again being dragged into the middle of a surreal situation by an angel he didn't even like. He didn't. He didn't like Castiel, he didn't like what he stood for, he didn't like what he'd done, he didn't like being a vessel, he didn't like the disillusionment with everything he'd read and believed when he was alive and still a husband and a father with a job in a house in Pontiac, Illinois. This couldn't be what God intended. 

He took a deep breath and started walking again, because what else could he do? He'd been a willing victim. Really, he had no one else to blame but himself. Oh, he could blame Castiel, he did blame Castiel; but really, Castiel hadn't forced him to say yes. Castiel had laid out his intentions. Castiel had spoken a bunch of flowery ideals and impotent promises; well, okay, he had made good on the protecting his family part. But he'd possessed Claire — but he'd done it to save everyone after Jimmy had spectacularly led demons right to them. This was a circle. He could point a finger all he wanted, but in the end he always ended up pointing at himself. 

He was so absorbed in self-incrimination and then self-justification that led to self-incrimination again that he didn't even hear the footsteps until they were right in front of him. He stopped and jerked his head up, blinked at French soldiers in medieval armor, and swallowed.

**

Dean kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. If this didn't work, if this didn't draw Metatron off, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. Then again, Metatron might not recognize him in this douchey little heaven-made cherry popper car that Ash had dreamed up. For a genius he was sometimes kind of a hoser. Dean was used to running for his life in his baby. He knew Sam thought it was a joke when Dean fawned over his car, but she'd saved their asses on more than one occasion, and she was pretty good for sleeping in, and she'd never let them down, not once. He sure hoped Sam was okay and not all wigged out; who was he kidding, just by being Sam he would be wigging out. But he sure hoped his brother wasn't trying to do anything stupid, like get into heaven to mount a rescue mission or some crap like that. Maybe Pamela could check on him through Mary Patricia, maybe he should have thought to ask her to do that. It never ceased to amaze him, the brilliance he could come up with when it didn't do him any good whatsoever. Way to go, Dean. If Metatron was hellbent on getting his ass shouldn't he have noticed something by now? Like road blocks or tire spikes or cop cars even? Not that he wanted Metatron to be deadly and clever and efficient, that would probably kind of suck, but y'know, it should at least seem like he was trying. Maybe Ash had it backwards and he wasn't this supposed beacon in heaven; maybe it was someone else, like Cas. The thought made his stomach clench a little. What if he was running away and leaving the others to take on Metatron alone? What if this wasn't a good idea? it's not like he had them all the time, and they ought to know that. 

He contemplated turning around, even started looking for a wide spot in the road where he could make the turn. Just as he was easing off the gas and the car was slowing down, an earthquake hit — or at least that was what it felt like. The road shook and the corvette shimmied in protest and fishtailed a little, making Dean struggle to straighten out the wheel. He glanced up at the rear-view again and had to immediately squint. The mirror was reflecting a great deal of light and that, he thought, was probably not good. No, probably not good at all, because really, white light was usually not a good sign at all, and for Dean it meant an angel was on his ass. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor again, listening to the engine open up. 

 

“If that's you, douchebag, and I know it is,” he suddenly yelled, “I got this game, let's see if you know how to play it! Light is shed upon the righteous and joy on the upright in heart! You hear that? No answer? It's Psalms, dick! Cas would know that in a heartbeat, he loves Psalms!” His heart was pounding, his palms slick against the wheel. “Come and get me ,cardigan breath! Because I can tell you right now, you seem about as threatening as a bag of week-old lettuce!” 

He wasn't sure the taunting was working, but damn, did it feel good.

**

Sam was running hard. He should be tired, out of breath, every muscle hurting, but it was effortless. The angels ran along with him, like ... in a flock, breaking when they overtook him, parting and coming together in front of him. He didn't want to fall behind. He could see Alat before him, he could almost hear the breathless, tireless whispers all around him, and they ran. He first assumed they would want to fly, but it made sense this way, to 'stay below the radar'. He had no idea where they were going, or really even how long they'd been running, he just knew that somehow it was way beyond his normal endurance. They plunged into a thick, green wood, splayed with dappled sunlight and the powerful smell of pine, darting between the trees, a single, united stream of intent with a purpose and a goal. Alat seemed to hang back and soon he was close to her and she darted out her arm, grabbed his hand in a grip of steel and he seemed to go faster. She turned to look at him, her eyes rings of light around her irises, and she whispered but it rang like a thunderclap in his ears. 

“We make for the garden,” she told him, “to the seat of heaven and the throne. If we meet him there we fight to win or die. You can stop now, no one expects this of you, no one would find shame in your decision. This is our home and you've done much already.”

Sam pulled at her grip on him and she loosened her hold. It was enough for him to slide his hand down her arm and grip her hand. Hand in hand with an angel, he ran on.

**

Jimmy took a few steps back as the grinning man in armor advanced on him. 

“You,” the man said, pointing at him, “have been a lot of trouble for a sale pute. Ah, don't look so, you sold your body to an angel and for what? To walk barefoot in heaven and pick flowers? I would run you through right now, only it probably wouldn't kill you and it would mean I'd have to carry your mangy carcass back to camp.” He moved forward again. Everything about him was aggressive. “I got a chewing out by my Captain and it's your fault, so that puts me in a mood.” 

He reached one armored hand out to grab Jimmy by the shoulder, and Jimmy opened his mouth to protest when one of the large white lilies in his hands turned and slapped itself against the armored wrist. The soldier blinked in surprise, then laughed. Then he stopped laughing, his eyes widening and before Jimmy's own eyes he seems to crackle and ... what was that computer term for a bad photo? Pixelate, he seemed to crack and pixelate and then pixelate even smaller until he was just a thick, human shaped mist of tiny white dots, and then the flower just sucked him in. All the flowers in Jimmy's arms and pockets seems to throb for a moment and wink with light, then they subsided again.

Well, that was different. Jimmy stood very still. So, if somehow this man was in heaven, even though he didn't seem the type to be in heaven, but then again, it was not Jimmy's place to judge, then he was theoretically a soul. And if he was a soul the flowers just ... ate him. So, an angel's grace could eat a human soul? And how creepy was this? Then again the grace just saved him, in theory, from whatever had been the man's intention. Things were looking up? He wasn't sure how to parse this in all honesty. The flowers in his arms all swiveled suddenly, in a single direction. 

Was this a sign? Jimmy turned to look off into the foliage, but he didn't see anything. If only John Wayne hadn't been duped by Metatron, he thought glumly. Then, _really, James Novak, that's what you're the most upset about?_ Or was it simply that he was starting to have trouble processing all this strangeness around him? Or was he just assimilating to it? He was walking barefoot in a forest with an armful of soul-eating flowers and he himself was a soul, and worst yet, he was starting to take directions from an _armful of flowers_ , because he turned and started walking in the direction they were all pointing. And why weren't his pants dry yet? It was annoying how the wet fabric slapped against his legs, and he would think at least in heaven that if something annoyed you, it would stop. One of the flowers patted against his cheek as if it was seeking to comfort him. Yes, best to just conform and come to accept that the afterlife was just as unpredictable and unpresentable as his mortal life had been. He had been possessed by an angel after all, why would he be questioning anything after that anyways?

**

“Do we even know where we're going?” Pamela groused, ducking a branch and swatting the leaves away from her face. “Does anyone know where we're going?”

Everyone except Pamela looked over at Castiel, and Castiel looked sort of put-upon to be looked at, and twitched his lips.

“We're going to the garden,” he said, “it's the control center of heaven more or less, hopefully we can find some help there.”

“So we're just hoping?” Pamela said and Castiel clenched his fists but said nothing, marching resolutely ahead. In truth, he'd never been to the garden. He was just a foot soldier, he just followed orders, he never laid eyes on the nerve of heaven, only its pulse, following it as a leaf blows on the wind. Then it had all changed, a sojourn on the earth below with a few harsh orders barked at him from afar. He was good at orders, Dean was not and everything he thought he knew, everything he'd thought he'd fought for had shattered to pieces and tumbled at Dean Winchester's feet. He missed Dean. He felt a gaping hole somewhere inside him that he knew nothing else would fill. He had fallen in every way, but for Dean he had fallen most of all. There was no going back, he wouldn't even want to, there was no saving him now. There was only this hope, to help his people, to right many wrongs and to finally, maybe, rest. Not at all what he deserved.

“Well, it's better than spinning our wheels,” Ellen said behind him.

“I'm sure Cas knows more about it than any of us and if he says that we might find help there, then it's best to believe him,” Jo followed up. As ever, she was Castiel's defender, something he deserved even less.

Bobby said nothing, only walking ahead and occasionally glancing behind. Castiel wanted to glance behind, too, but he knew that if he did, this carefully constructed shield he had around him might start to crumble. He owed it more to Dean than to himself to keep looking ahead. 

Bobby suddenly stopped, held up his hand, a finger to his lips. The others froze in their tracks. Cas strained every sense he had to listen to the area around them. He heard it then, in the distance: footsteps, running. 

Collectively, they retreated, making their own footsteps and light and quick as they could, looking for anywhere to hide, to move to a vantage point where they could see what was coming near them. Ellen and Jo looked at one another, then Ellen was boosting Jo into a tree, and she was climbing with agility and ease toward the top branches. Thick underbrush seemed a flimsy haven, but the rest of themducked into it, squatting down, shoulder to shoulder, to listen and wait. 

Bobby sat with his head tilted back, squinting up for any signal from Jo. The air was thick with their tension. Castiel's hands twitched, but no blade glided smoothly down into his palm. They were effectively helpless, weaponless and at the mercy of whatever might overtake them. It made bile rise in his throat, and he turned fleeting thoughts to Dean and swallowed down a prayer as that might give them away. 

Indeterminate moments ticked by and Castiel made an effort to control his breathing, quiet his mind, slip into the mode he knew so well as an angel when all was still and silent. It was Jo who broke the tension over them.

“ _Sam!_ ” she screamed from the tree top, and then the rustling of branches was far too loud as she started to make her way down. Bobby and Ellen jumped to their feet and Pamela hissed at them, reaching up to grab Ellen's sleeve, unconvinced.

“It's Sam and a bunch of other people,” Jo exclaimed in breathless excitement. “Come on, we'll lose them!” She dropped to the ground and bolted into the trees and the rest stood for a shocked moment after her, then as one, they ran.

**

He slapped at the dashboard a few times and then the radio crackled to life. There was a high and whining burst of static that made him slap the dashboard again, and then a voice picked its way through the noise.

“Requests for Winchester radio?” Ash said through the crackle. “Let's see what we got here. I know, how about 'Band on the Run'?” 

“Oh god, not McCartney by himself. Come on, you can play me a funeral march better than that!” Dean yelled. 

“Dude, Funeral March is by Chopin,” Ash returned, “how about a little Pink Floyd? This one has you written all over it.”  
'Run Like Hell' began to pour out of the radio and Dean rolled his eyes a moment and snorted loudly. “Yeah, dude, funny and all but you got any way of finding out just what the hell is going on? I mean, he's an angel and he can't catch a Stingray? I'm feeling like a mouse here, help me out!” 

The music cut out.

“Touchy,” Ash said, “but understandable. I know I wouldn't want Metadouche on my ass. He's all over my radar, just one massive blip.”

“That's great and all, but what about me, am I on the radar?” Dean asked, trying not to get exasperated. It wouldn't do to have too much eye rolling at 205 mph.

“Yeah, you're the itty bitty blip running away from the massive blip,” Ash supplied helpfully. “You know, he might have trouble actually seeing you. I think he knows your general vicinity but he's skyscraper tall and you're a speck on the ground. Ah, okay, well, that's not good, he's shifted mass,” Ash said. “Being a non-uniform density because of being a wavelength makes it easy for these jokers.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean barked at the radio, “Tell me that again like you're a real boy! Jeezus!”

“He's gotten slightly smaller,” Ash said, “you know, closer to the ground, easier to see you. Dean, I think it might be time to ditch the wheels and break for it on foot, present a smaller target.” Ash's voice wavered a moment. “Dean, he's right on top of you.”

Dean hardly heard the last part because he was spinning the steering wheel madly. Something large, white and glowing had slammed down on the road in front of him. The little corvette fishtailed madly, then gave up and spun a full hundred and eighty degrees, turning again as it slid down the road and slammed its passenger side door into the blockade. The impact slammed Dean into the door, stunning him momentarily, his foot still firmly on the gas pedal. The corvette recovered itself enough to shoot along the blockade, metal scraping in protest and right off the side of the road, breaking through the brambles there before bottoming out in a small ravine. Yup, time to ditch the ride. 

Dean threw the door open and hurriedly tried to unfold himself from the interior, only to look up and spot what seemed to be four tall cylinders of light heading his way. They crowded him back into the car and the car tilted crazily up, throwing him into the passenger seat. He became very aware suddenly that the car was moving upwards, like a lazy float. It righted itself and the interior flooded with light and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get into the floorboard. Then the air around him shattered into high-pitched vibration and he slammed his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth in protest. The car shook. He bounced around the interior before landing half in the driver's seat, the steering wheel slamming into his ribs.

“ _Stop shaking me, you fucking dick, and shut the hell up, I can't hear myself think_ ”, he screamed. Then there was silence. He didn't dare open his eyes; he liked them too much.

“You know, you're in Heaven now, the rules here are different, even for a living soul,” a voice said in his head. He knew that smarmy tone.

“Yeah ,and why the fuck should I trust you?” he sneered, eyes still tightly shut.

“Well for one thing, I'm talking to you,” Metatron said.

**

He thought he heard his name. He slowed a bit, causing Alat to look at him, tighten her grip on his hand. Now some of the others seemed to sound an alarm and the angels bringing up the rear slowed to a halt, turned, swords in hand. Alat came to a stop as Sam did, released his hand. 

“Wait here, Samuel,” she said, moving back to join the others, ready to defend the group of them. He could hear the other angels run on. Whoever was coming toward them made no attempt to hide the sound of their passage, he heard a few more shouts in the distance, and again something that sounded like his name. Then a figure broke through the shadow of the trees and his eyes widened.

“Sam!” Jo cried, running with arms out, and Sam pushed through the line of angels, running to meet her, grabbing her up into his arms and laughing in a breathless way.

“Jo!” He cried back, laughing, feeling like crying, and she flung her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek against his cheek, and they stood there, holding each other, Jo's feet dangling off the ground. The rest of the group broke through and Sam gaped over Jo's shoulder.

“Ellen, Bobby!” he lowered Jo to the ground as they converged on him. “Cas! Pam! Oh my god, you're all here!”

Bobby was grinning huge; he slapped Sam hard on the shoulder. “Damn boy, what the blue blazes are _you_ doing here?!” he asked. “Tell me you're not doing something stupid!”

“No, the angels, we found this spell ... “ he started, then Ellen was hugging him and Pam was rubbing his back and Cas was standing there, alternating between staring at him and darting nervous glances at the angels behind him. “We found this spell, a ladder to Heaven, I know it sounds crazy but it worked. We're going to the garden.” He turned to look at the assembled angels behind him. “Where's Dean?”

“He's here, the last we saw him he was safe, he's running interference,” Bobby said.

“He's being a decoy for Metatron,” Cas interjected: the first time he'd spoken. “He's trying to lead him away from the garden. It's imperative we get there as fast as we can.”

“Then we should move,” Alat said, “and save the reunion for after we've taken back our home.” She was looking at Cas, but she turned away. “Come, we should go now, while Dean is giving us the opportunity,” she said, and she ran. 

Sam nodded, gripped Jo's hand and tugged her along. The others came with them. The group that had hugged the back of the line returned there, to run cover in case of an incursion. 

**

Cas remembered this well. Running into battle. The tireless motion, the sound of feet striking the ground in unison. He used to run at the head of the pack, but now he stayed close to the middle, close to Sam and the others. 

He knew of Alat, a guard in the seventh hall of heaven, a fierce and noble warrior, one singled out with special favor. If there was retribution for his actions when all was said and done, any atonement leveled on him ... he would think to ask Alat to be his executioner. If Dean were here, he'd call Cas a gloomy bastard. He tried not to think of Dean; he ran on. Talk amongst the human souls while running was impossible, but he was keenly aware of the angels communicating around them. He was sure they were talking about him. But no he ought not to assume that, that was self-centered, wasn't it? Prideful? Oh, it was so hard to keep up with all the human variables. But he was sure they were talking about him. How could they not ? Here was the architect of their folly running with them in Heaven toward who knew what? No, that was blowing his own worth totally out of proportion. They were, of course, talking about how to confront Metatron and perhaps take back the systems of Heaven. Surely that was what they were talking about. Or they were talking about what a tremendous failure he'd been of late, talking about his human corruption. No, surely they weren't talking about him at a time like this ... were they? 

His attention was abruptly called away. He felt sharply for a moment a light at the edge of his vision. He almost stumbled and Ellen caught his elbow, running beside him, pulling him steady. He swallowed hard, nodded at her, and she released him. There was a brief burst in his mind, the static and chatter of angel radio. He grabbed at it, but it slipped away. It couldn't mean what he thought it meant, could it? 

He ran harder.

**

“You can open your eyes, you know,” Metatron told him in a reasonable way. “You're in Heaven, regardless of your status, and that means you can look upon its wonders.”

“You're hardly a fucking wonder,” Dean snarled, but still, his curiosity was just killing him. He very slowly opened his eyes to a squint. It was still really bright and he blinked rapidly for a moment, trying to adjust. He lifted his eyes to look out the front windshield, and saw two enormous, glowing silver balls . He stared for a moment, mute and they moved when he shifted to sit up in the seat, track him. Oh … oh fuck, are those _eyes_?

“There now, see? You're still in possession of all your faculties,” Metatron hummed at him. “You're something of a minor miracle; really tenacious and resourceful. But that ends now.” The eyes blinked slowly. “Let's take a little trip back to the garden shall we? I'm sure your friends are almost there by now. Together we can talk some sense into them.”

“Screw you!” Dean shouted, throwing up both hands and showing both middle fingers. He swung them back and forth to make sure Metatron got a good look. “Dangling me on a hook isn't going to make them stop! They are going to take your ass down, you smarmy dick. You gotta lot of nerve kicking everyone out of the house and locking the door!” 

The car gave an abrupt shake and Dean's head struck the roof hard. He grunted and grabbed for the steering wheel.

“Now now, temper temper, we'll let them decide, won't we?” There was a smirk to Metatron's voice. Dean snorted loudly. Great trapped in a matchbox car like a lego figure, just great. 

He became aware that they were moving. He turned to look out the side window, but couldn't really see anything but some white vista the car seemed to be sitting on, so he tried rolling down the window and sticking his head out. He craned his head up, because he became aware he must be sitting in a corvette in the palm of the hand of a giant angel fuckhead. He was right. But he really couldn't make out any distinctive features until something on its shoulder moved and it was a head of some animal and wow, how high up were they and okay fuck this and he ducked back into the car and rolled the window up hurriedly, like that would do any good for anything.

“Why you gotta be like this, man?” Dean yelled. “I thought you guys were family, this ain't the way to treat family!” Maybe Metatron needed a good yelling at; nobody had tried that yet, had they? Maybe there was a way to talk some sense into the guy. When they'd first met his dumpy little ass, he hadn't seemed all that threatening; he'd even saved Kevin. But then he'd gone and found Cas; Cas, who trusted anyone that smiled at him and fuck, why'd it have to be Cas? “How could you do that to Cas? He was trying to help you, he believed in you!”

“I'm very grateful to Castiel,” Metatron thrummed. “Why do you think I gave him what he most desired? A way to be with you, wholly with you and not above you. I gave him a chance to be human. You should thank me. If you'd taken better care of what you'd been given, then this mess wouldn't have started in the first place.”

That shouldn't have made Dean go silent. That shouldn't have twisted Dean into knots. He couldn't let this get to him.

“I see you don't have a ready answer,” Metatron continued. “Instead, let's hear a story. Tell me your story, Dean. Tell me how your life changed after I made my coup.”

Dean's life had changed dramatically; this was true. There were crazed angels thrown into the mix of already crazed monsters. He'd hunted; but he hunted anyways. The one notable change, the change that made all the difference was of course the humanization of Castiel, angel of the Lord. Cas was there to be human and vulnerable; to challenge and test Dean; to turn to him, to depend on him, to love him. That was, of course, Dean's big change. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in the knowledge that maybe, just maybe ... Metatron _had_ done him the greatest of favors by plucking Cas from the clouds and stranding him on earth. That was fucking selfish, both of this monumental dick of an angel and of himself.

“You didn't give him a choice,” Dean said quietly, knowing he would be heard at any volume. “You were just getting him out of the way.”

“True, but we don't always get what we want, unless of course we do and we are too much of a coward to acknowledge it,” Metatron said mildly.

“Fuck you,” Dean whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You don't get to pretend you're noble and just and your cause is right,” Metatron said, “you don't get to make this quest retribution for wrongs committed against you. Because you're guilty, Dean Winchester, one of the guiltiest of all — and this one, you really deserve. Where's all your vim and vigor now? Where are your useless threats? Here is what is going to happen. I am going to present your friends at the garden a choice, and then no matter what they choose, I'm going to absorb them. You, on the other hand, I'm going to return to earth as a sad cautionary tale for people who can't leave well enough alone.”

“I am going to kill you,” Dean hissed under his breath.

“Well, it wouldn't be you if you didn't try,” Metatron said, not sounding very concerned.

**

They stopped to get their bearings in a thicket. They stood in groups, the humans to one side, the angels to the other, and Sam nervously pacing between them. The angels huddled up as if to confer, there was some pointing and Sam came over to sort of loom over their huddle a moment, then he paced back to Bobby and Jo and Ellen and Pam. Cas was a little more detached than that, hanging off sort of by himself at the edge of the thicket, a few feet away from the rest of them. 

“Okay, so how is it you're running through Heaven with a bunch of angels?” Bobby asked him as he watched Cas pace back and forth at the tree line. Sam pulled his attention to his friends, who were all watching him with expectant expressions. 

“Uh, we found this spell, or sort of modified this spell and made a Jacob's Ladder, well, me and Mary Patricia did and then I was probably about halfway here talking with a French guy who was like the ladder tour guide or something and they showed up,” he waved at the group of angels. “Alat's cool, the rest of them are so-so I guess, they're okay. That's it, that's the story.” He looked over at Cas again. “What's Cas looking for?”

“Why don't you go ask him?” Ellen said. “He sure seems distracted. He's a lot easier with you than with the rest of us. Poor guy, he's not having a very relaxing time of being newly dead. I mean, he sort of walked right into a hornet's nest.”

“I guess it's wrong to say he should be used to it, but he should be used to it,” Bobby gruffed. “We never catch a damn break, and we're dead. Well most of us, anyways.”

Sam nodded, glanced over at the angels one more time, and then walked over to where Cas stood, arms folded, foot tapping. “Cas, you okay? What is it?”

“Something is coming,” Cas said without looking at him. “It's ... I don't want to read to much into it.” He did look at Sam then, and almost immediately dropped his gaze. “I'm also worried for Dean.”

“Yeah well, worrying about Dean is one of your specialties. He's smart, Cas, he's crafty, he will be fine.” He slapped Cas on the shoulder. “Back to what's coming; any idea at all?”

Cas looked up at him again. His eyes moved over Sam's face for a moment, and he rubbed his arms. “There is something in me ... singing.” He rubbed his chest. “But perhaps that's not a good analogy. It's a feeling that's blossoming, intense anticipation. There was this one really cold day and Dean dragged me outside the bunker and he had these menthol cigarettes. When we shared one in that really cold air, my head cleared. It was like breathing in winter, Dean called it a rush. It's like that, Sam, it's a rush, and I want to be hopeful, but given my history, I'm trying to be reserved.”

“Cas,” Sam said, watching him intently, “I'm not following.”

Castiel made a frustrated noise and opened his mouth, but the group of angels broke apart, and Alat called to them. They'd decided on a course, and further discussion would have to wait. 

**

They were going to split into two groups now. Cas would accompany Bobby and Ellen along with his brothers Chayo and Gemi. Alat, Jo, Sam, Pamela and the rest of the group would stay on the path they were on now, while Castiel and his smaller group were to take a more circuitous route. The hope was, of course, that if one group was set upon, the other would prevail. It was a sensible strategy, and though Cas felt a pang at being separated from Sam and Jo, he could see its logic. The two angels that joined his group watched him with a quiet speculation that made him a bit edgy, but Bobby patted his back and gave him a nod, and Ellen smiled.

“Home stretch, fellas,” she said. “This place might actually be pretty livable if we get you guys back in charge.” She nodded at the other angels. “Man, I was never in this good a shape when I was back home.”

“You and me both,” Bobby said. “Hell, I thought monster hunting kept me fit, but we've been running flat out for miles. Heaven's starting to have its advantages.”

“It only seems like miles,” Gemi piped up then. “Actually, we are bending space between Heavens ...”

“Yeah, yeah, don't burst my bubble, boy.” Bobby waved him off. 

“It is true, you know,” Cas said with a tilt of his head and a lift of his brows, “distance here is only relative. Alat has been choosing our path, think of it as a multitude of little worm holes ...”

“You put a sock in it, Cas,” Bobby snorted. “Starting to sound all uppity like you did when I knew you on earth, thought you had that stick out of your ass now. Looks like they're heading for the starting line. Who's gonna be our point man?”

Chayo gave a nod and Bobby herded Ellen and Cas over to where he and Gemi were standing, then they all began to run again. Cas and his group veered off from the others, following Chayo into the heavier cover of the deeper forest.

**

Jimmy stopped and looked up at the trees towering above him. They seemed endless and old, a lot like this place. The flowers pushed between the buttons on his shirt, wound themselves around his fingers; some had managed to get a grip on his hair. He was starting to wonder if this was going to be what his eternity was like: shepherding an angel's grace manifested as giant white lilies in the endless forest of heaven. It was poetic but potentially very dull. 

He sighed and started walking again, only to have his chin slapped by a flower until he was heading in the right direction. There were no sounds in the forest, no bird chatter, no crackling of dried brush as something _(other than himself)_ walked along the forest floor. He felt completely alone, the single soul in all the forest. That was when the tops of the trees began to sway very gently and the flowers all stilled in his arms. 

He craned his head up, squinting against the brightness of the heavenly sky. Something seemed to be moving; at first he thought that maybe it was clouds. Clouds in some amorphous shape moving slowly across the sky; but after he watched them a moment, they seemed to take shape. They looked for all the world like the heads of animals, but he couldn't make out what sort of animals, and he took a few steps forward ,but the flowers pushed against his chest and he stopped. Not only did they look like heads, but shoulders and, well, wings, massive wings, and there were a lot of clouds all clustered in this one group making this one image. It was so strange he wanted to get in the clear, to see it better and more in the open, but every time he started to move the flowers would push and slap him as if it made them anxious. It was this that made him think about what he was seeing, made it come into clear and slow focus. This was an angel? This was an angel, of course, he knew the vague outline he'd seen in his dreams before Castiel dropped out of Heaven and into his body. This was an angel and the only angel in Heaven was … Metatron, of course. Now he was no longer seized with wonder, but instead contemplating a place to hide, and how could he even hide? But Metatron kept moving away, and within moments he was out of sight and Jimmy let go a breath and instinctively clutched his armful of flowers closer. This was the first he'd seen of Metatron and he seemed to be heading in the direction that Jimmy was going and what did that all mean? If the flowers were herding him and the flowers were Castiel's grace — as he was slowly and incredulously starting to suspect — did it mean that Castiel was in that direction? And maybe Metatron knew that, too ,and Castiel would not be alone, the others would be with him, and this surely wasn't a good sign. He licked his lips and considered his options. There weren't really any options, were there? He had to get this back to Castiel, that was the whole point. If somehow Castiel could take his grace back and be an angel again, maybe he could put right what Metatron had broken and Heaven would be Heaven again. 

The flowers didn't object this time when he moved forward, and then he started to run.


	11. Walking beneath the enormous sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that matters in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished and all it took was a year, but I wanted to have at least one completed SPN fic before I died. Who knows, I might even have two. I wanted to thank Bob_Fish for her INCREDIBLE PATIENCE and beta-ing talents and hand holding in general; she makes all things possible. Also, thanks to those who read this, it was a long time in the making.

Fuck this.

Dean rolled down the side window again, squeezed out and stepped onto the palm of a giant. He walked slowly and carefully along the car, then along what he assumed was a wrist, stepping over rows of bunched cloth—was it cloth? Anyway, whatever Metadouche was wearing, he had to climb over that.He had started climbing up the cloth toward the shoulder when a huge palm slapped over him and plucked him off like he was a bug. The palm closed over him a moment later. He felt a sudden stab of intense claustrophobia, tried to kick and squirm his way free; but then the palm opened up and he sat up, gasping in air.

“Are you kidding me? See, that's the problem; tenacity. When God was creating you, there was a lot of gossip flying around. I think some of the resentment came from the fact he was deliberately letting you lot be willful; it was terribly unfair. Were you sightseeing? All you have to do is ask.” Another hand came up, then fingers clamped around him and lifted him. Hey, wait a fucking minute …

“How many hands you have?” Dean yelled toward Metatron's head area. He was kind of proud of himself, taking all this mind bending shit in stride.

“I have four,” Metatron told him. “Most angels do, you can tell class apart by the number of wings. The more wings you got, the more of a big shot you are.”

“So, you only got two, that's secretarial pool level,” Dean snorted, heedless of the fact he was hanging between two fingers.

“All the grunts only have two, like Cannon Fodder, I mean Castiel,” Metatron replied. Dean could have sworn that he rolled his eyes, even in the expressionless visage that passed for his face; it just looked like a mask. 

Suddenly Dean was swung around until he could see a spot in the near distance. It was lush and bright and pulsing There was something he could feel. The Garden. The nerve point of heaven. He and Sam had been there once before, they'd met Joshua there, been told that God was giving them the 'no soliciting' sign there. 

“I know your little band of intrepid heroes is heading there,” said Metatron. “It makes sense, that is where the control room is more or less.” 

Metatron tossed the car. It crashed down through the trees to the ground below, and burst into flames on impact.

**

Jimmy reeled back as a fireball suddenly rose before him, in the near distance. He had no clue what had just happened. He turned to go in a different direction, only to have the flowers slap at his face.

“But I can't go that way, it's on fire!” How absurd, he was arguing with flowers. But the moment he tried to turn to another directions the flowers became frantic. One even poked him in the eye. “Okay! But if we die, it's your fault!” 

He ran on, hoping he could skirt by the fire, or that somehow it wouldn't take hold. But that was not to be. As he neared the site, the fire was already creeping in his direction. He hesitated again. The flowers yearned toward the flames. Finally, he gave in, jogging slowly and cautiously in that direction. When he neared the inferno, the flowers in his hands exploded into light and the light outshone the flame and when it dimmed again, the flames were gone. 

Jimmy blinked at the aftermath as he ran by the blackened foliage. He could feel a vibration to the ground now. He had to be getting close.

**

Sam could feel a change in the atmosphere. The angels all seemed to react at once. Alat brought up her hand, and they all came to a stop. She turned back to the group. “He's near,” she said. Then she and the other angels all turned as one, and Sam, Jo and Pamela turned to see what they were looking at. They craned their necks up.

“What is that?” Jo said quietly. “Is that … an angel?”

“Metatron,” Sam whispered, looking at the giant form looming in the distance. “That's all it could be.”

“That is a big, weird, son of a bitch,” Pamela added at a whisper. “How the hell do we go against that?”

“We'll find a way, we always find a way,” Sam said, watching the figure move. This is what Cas was? This is what he left behind when Metatron stole his grace and threw him to earth, and yet he managed to pull it together, to be with Dean, when he was this? 

The giant figure stopped and turned in their direction. Everyone went still and silent.

Metatron called out over the trees. “I can feel you, you know, and I know you're out there. I have Dean Winchester, just in case you were wondering. I haven't absorbed him yet because I figure you might want to do some negotiating. I'll just be over here in the garden when you feel like showing up.” 

**

Cas and his group came to a stop.

“Balls.” Bobby exhaled, looked at Ellen. She sighed and shook her head.

“We keep moving, and we just hope Sam and his group realize the negotiating is a trap, but that they might have to play into it so we can get to the control room or whatever in this place.” She looked over at Cas.

“He would want us to keep going. He knows what is at stake. So, let's go,” Cas said. He found this created interval unnecessary. Ellen didn't need his permission. He rubbed at his stomach through his shirt and averted his eyes. He was a warrior, and this was a battle for Heaven: that's all that he needed to focus upon. Chayo and Gemi stood by, looking impassive. It was clear they were not looking at Cas for leadership, but they seemed to respect Ellen, and they nodded quietly to her when she turned back to them. 

**

“It was foolhardy to think he would not sense our approach,” Alat was saying, “but this could also be an opportunity for the other team to strike. I am under the impression Dean Winchester is your sibling?” She directed this to Sam.

Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah and I'm all for negotiation, so, you can let me take point on that.”

“Ill-advised,” said one of the other angels. “Humans are easily compromised and manipulated through emotions. One of us should handle the talks.”

“Hey, back off, buddy, it's his brother,” Jo said. “If anyone is talking to Metatron about Dean, it'll be Sam, because Sam's invested and we don't know you from Jack.”

The angel gestured at Jo and then looked at Alat, as if using Jo to prove his point. Jo shot him a bird, and Sam stepped between them and gave Jo a look. Pamela just stood by, looking amused.

“Look, Jo is right, I'm going to do any negotiating for my brother.” Sam turned to look at Alat as well. “Even if you don't back me up.”

“She is right, we aren't invested.” Alat traded looks with the other angels. “Therefore our negotiations would be suspect and Metatron would know it for a distraction. He expects Samuel to come forth. You do know it's a obvious trap?” she asked, turning to Sam. “I speculated he has no intention of honoring any such deals and will likely attempt to absorb us if he can catch us. We must be very cautious.”

**

Jimmy thought he heard voices. That had never really proved very good for him, not since all of this madness started. He ducked behind a nearby tree and squatted down to wait for them to pass. He flowers rustled a bit, but didn't seem alarmed and stayed relatively quiet. Good, that was good. He patted one absently. He'd heard Metatron call out to whoever was here in the woods, at least to Sam, who was probably upset that Metatron had his brother. If Sam was in the woods then Sam might know where Castiel was, and then Jimmy could give him the flowers, then Jimmy could walk away because he'd done what needed to be done. 

He slipped out of his hiding spot and headed toward the angel standing in the distance.

**

They had to be so close. Castiel watched his fellow angels, or what used to be his fellow angels, the ones who still had grace, who could still sense the divine. They were looking around anxiously. 

Chayo brought them all to a halt, then pointed to what looked like a worn path into a thicket. “That must be it,” he said quietly to Gemi. “Can you feel it? Can you hear it?”

Gemi was nodding, his smile wide. “The heart of the garden,” Gemi said with reverence.

“Good,” Cas said, walking past them, “let's get these systems disabled, find out if there is a way to break the spell.” All business. Bobby, Chayo and Gemi walked along behind them, alert as they entered the dense copse of trees. Ellen trotted forward to come alongside him.

“You okay, Cas?” she asked. “I'm thinking this is kind of rough on you. Dean being held as bait, being back here like this as a human soul. You okay for this?”

 

“I'm fine,” Cas snapped, then he exhaled hard, through his nose, and looked sidelong at Ellen. “Sorry, you're right, there is some … tension, but I'm clear in my mission and what needs to be done. Dean's abduction and my … distress are secondary to reversing what Metatron has done to my home.”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Ellen said, “Just as long as you're good.” They went silent and walked on—and right into a small encampment of soldiers who looked just as surprised to see them as they were to be seen.

**

Sam ran and Jo ran behind him. Pamela opted to stay behind with the angels and hope no one got eaten. Sam led Jo the edge of a field and stopped. He put a hand on her shoulder. 

“You wait right here,” he told her.

“Nuh-uh, none of that bullshit,” she told him. “I'm not playing stay behind damsel.”

“Look, if something goes south, then I need you to run back and tell the others! No one is putting baby in a corner — you, not Dean's car.” 

“Fuck your logic,” Jo said, crossing her arms, “fine. I'll wait here. Make it snappy.”

Sam nodded, then he turns and strode to the middle of the field, took a deep breath and shouted, “ _Metatron_ , I'm here to talk!” He swallowed hard when the giant in the distance turned his way and then started moving toward him. He counted five strides. He could feel the ground around him vibrate, see the trees sway—and then the clearing was washed in light. He blinked, feeling like he was looking up into a helicopter search light, (which ironically he'd done more than once in his life) only multiplied by a hundred. “How do I know you have Dean?” he shouted, an arm raised to shield his eyes. The brightness receded. Sam craned his head back to look up. The figure bent at its waist and held something up for Sam to see.

“ _Sammy, what the fuck, man, it's a trap! Are you stupid?_ ” his elder brother screamed from where he dangled between two huge fingers.

“So what kind of terms are you expecting here?” Sam asked, tone reasonable because he knew Metatron could hear him just fine.

“Sam, get the fuck out of here!” Dean continued to shriek, thrashing around, legs kicking, looking like one of those toys you have on a pull string that dance. Sam internally scolded himself for thinking it was funny—time and place—he was picking up all sorts of bad habits from Dean.

“How about “get out of Heaven and never come back?'” said Metatron. “But see, I don't know how to make that one stick. The spell did its work by kicking everyone out, but it didn't have any guarantee about keeping them out. Hence now I'm having to deal with this absurdity. How about you get out of Heaven, take the ones who managed to get back in with you, and I'll keep Dean here as insurance so no one tries anything. That is, until he dies of old age, how about that? That's reasonable.” 

“ _No, it's not, and when I'm dead of old age, I'll still be up here with you!_ ” Dean screamed. “ _Don't deal with this dickhead, Sammy!_ ”

“How about you put it to a vote with your team of do-gooders hiding off over there in the trees?” Metatron asked. “I'll give you time to consult.”

“ _Wait a minute, what the fuck are you doing up here, anyways? Was it the ladder, was I right?_ ” Dean was cupping his hands around his mouth now to act as a megaphone.

“That isn't a deal, Metatron,” Sam said, then he gave Dean a thumbs up sign. “I'm not leaving my brother here as a hostage to our good behavior, and I'm not leading you back to my group, so, try again.”

In response Metatron suddenly tossed Dean in the air and caught him in his palm. Then he closed his fingers over him. “I suppose I could go the absolute power route and crush him,” Metatron speculated, “but revenge is a thing with you, isn't it? Underestimating you is another thing. Hmm.” He brought the closed hand holding Dean up, and tapped the chin of his mask with it. “How about I just absorb the both of you right now and take you off the playing board, or …” He moved so fast Sam didn't see it coming until a giant hand closed around him. “Now I have a set,” Metatron said gleefully. “Go on thinking you're unseen in the woods back there, maybe you wanna run back to Castiel now and tell him I have them both, and I'll be waiting. But the really interesting part, I suddenly realize is that if you _were_ with Castiel he'd be here, which means you split up, which means …” 

And then Metatron was striding away and from Metatron's hand, Sam saw Jo turn and run with all her might back toward the group.

**

Chayo and Gemi were, of course, a perfect unit and they delivered a long sword into Cas' hand, but then made short work of the soldiers guarding the inner sanctum. Afterwards, they rushed in eagerly and Cas, Bobby and Ellen followed in behind them. They found both angels staring at large screens that to the humans, Cas included, looked blank and dark. But Cas knew better.

“What do you see?” he demanded, coming forward.

Chayo pointed at one screen. “He has some of the systems online, but not all of them.”

Gemi shook his head. “The spell will not be connected to networks already set in place, we need to locate anomalies!”

“So, if you break the spell everything just snaps back into place? All the angels come home?” Ellen asked.

“In theory,” Cas said. “We're hoping to use the Horn of Gabriel, actually. It has its own spell to recall the host to heaven—at least that was rumored to be one of its powers. There is, unfortunately, no Gabriel to ask.”

“Where do we find it?” Bobby asked. 

“I saw it in the armory when Ash and I went there, before I got sucked out of it for unknown reasons,” Cas informed him. “But we need to neutralize Metatron first, or we'd just be calling our people back to a potential slaughter.”

“He comes!” Gemi suddenly said, looking up at the sky above them. “He's coming very fast, he'll be upon us in moments!” Both he and Chayo looked at Ellen.

“Can we hide?” Ellen said, turning to Cas.

“We could try,” Cas said, “but I'm not sure it would do any good. We should …”

“What have we here?” A voice descended over them all. “While the cat's away, the mice will play. I always loved that saying. Also, the gang's all here.” A hand descended, opened, and Sam Winchester rolled from its palm onto the ground, gasping air. Bobby ran to help him sit up. 

“Do you know what's in this hand, Castiel?” Metatron lowered another of his hands, loosened up his grip a bit. Ellen gasped when they saw an arm push between two of his fingers. “He's ornery,” Metatron said above them. “We don't really have to do a monologue, do we? I mean we all know why we're here, what we set out to accomplish, and the inevitable end to the story. It's very textbook at this point with the addendum that once I finish up here, I go find the rest of them out there. A sad epilogue to a heroic struggle. But such is fickle fate.”

“Let him go,” Cas said, firm and quietly. “You're right, there is no need for a monologue, and we all know what will happen now. But at least give him the dignity of being with us in the end. You can do that, surely? Or do you want me to give you some emotional response to satisfy your self-inflated ego? Do you want to hear that I love him and I would die for him? It's self-evident, as I do and I have before. What saddens me most is that you do this in the stead of a father you claim to love. I'm not sure how your version got so warped. I guess it doesn't matter in the end.” Cas' eyes never left Metatron's closed hand. 

Gemi lost his nerve, He turned and started to flee into the surrounding woods, but Metatron plucked him up, held him aloft. 

“The vessel is a bother,” Metatron said. Then he brought his fingers together and crushed Gemi's rib cage, and Ellen looked away quickly, and Chayo whispered a prayer, and the vessel's head flopped back and light poured from his mouth and eyes, and Metatron seemed to take a deep breath and the light flooded into him. He let the body drop. 

“It doesn't have to be that graphic but I felt the need to do a display,” Metatron sighed. “Too many years of melodrama on earth.” Then he looked at his other hand, the closed hand holding Dean Winchester, and he shrugged. “Not a vessel, but the body is in the way,” he said.

Castiel's blood froze, then boiled. There was nothing, nothing he could do. He was about to watch Dean—good, caring, decent, righteous, beautiful Dean—be crushed out of his human body and sucked into a cosmic wavelength for his soul's power. He was shaking, he knew he was; he could hear Sam screaming useless threats. He could hear Ellen trying to offer reason, and there was nothing he could do, nothing he could do. 

Then all the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his flesh raised in goose bumps and as he half-turned, a body came running out of the woods, blazing light, and it hit him with a great force, and they both fell to the ground.

**

He couldn't breathe. Then he realized that he didn't have to: it was grace. Grace was filling his senses, weaving through his soul, recalling him to what he was and was meant to be. He exploded outward. 

He was aware of another soul, small and human, and he cradled it, bringing it inside himself to protect it, as he surrendered cognitive thought for long moments while his grace reunited with the fabric of creation. When he came forward again as the center of his own thoughts, he was standing in the gardens of Heaven. He could feel souls around him, and the presence of another angel. He flexed his wings and cleared his throats, as if it had been a while, and it had. He felt oddly calm in being and purpose; he flicked his wings.

“Crap,” said the other angel.

Castiel would have wrinkled his brow, if he'd had one. It was very quiet; in his head at any rate. Where were his brothers and sisters? In confusion, he raised his voice in a song of praise and question, but he heard nothing in return. Alarm prickled his senses. Something wasn't right; he was missing something. He turned to the other angel, started to speak—but something on the ground caught his attention. Why were there human souls in the garden? And, as a thought, why was he here? He'd never been here in his long existence, never been summoned here. He had entertained thoughts of what it might be like, but never set foot here. Something inside him escalated the alarm.The soul he'd sheltered during his reconstruction: it was filled with dread and worry and hope.

“Brother,” the angel before him said, “Welcome back. I can see you have some confusion, but you are home now, and together we can put right what the humans have destroyed! Look, even now there are still insurgents in this sacred place!”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked in confusion. “We are in heaven, what would they have destroyed? Where is the host? Why did I get left behind? I don't …” Someone was praying to him.

**

Sam was shouting, but they weren't listening. There was another angel now, and Cas had vanished before their eyes in a blaze of light, so logic dictated that the other giant towering over them was the Angel Castiel, restored with his grace. Only Castiel wasn't paying any attention to the fact that Metatron was crushing Dean in one of his hands. He seemed to be conversing with Metatron; their heads were tipped toward each other. Screaming ' _Cas!_ ' was having no effect. So, Sam Winchester started to pray. He was, unbeknownst to himself, very good at praying, and a number of angels had listened to his prayers over the years. They knew his destiny, so it was only right they record his journey from child to vessel of Satan. The consensus among the angels assigned to catalog his prayers was that Samuel Winchester was forthright and clear and spoke with intelligence, not asking for outlandish wishes, but merely offering his humble praise and asking for his brother and/or father to be all right.

“Castiel, I'm here to ask you to remember yourself and your time on earth and what we've been through together since you've returned to Heaven. I don't ask for myself, but for Dean, who the angel in front of you is crushing to death in his _hand!_ Come on, Cas! _Cas_ , hear me!” He looked at Bobby and Ellen, Jo and Pamela and the other angels who were in the fringes of the trees. The ones who had come upon this scene. “ _Pray!_ ” he shouted at them. 

The form towering above them tilted its head, as if listening.

Alat emerged from the trees, came to Sam's side. “Hear us, brother, we beseech thee, Angel of Thursday, that in your mercy you might deliver us back to our homes!” Sam gave her a thumbs up, and she looked puzzled.

Sam watched Metatron reach out with one of his other hands, watched as he gripped Cas' arm and leaned in to speak urgently. One of Metatron's hands was behind his back; Sam saw a great blade slipping from nowhere into his hand. Then, for the first time, Castiel looked down. Sam jumped up and down, waving his arms, and Castiel tilted his head. Jo was also jumping up and down, and Bobby and Ellen were waving both hands, and the entire chorus of 'Castiel' rose as if in song.

**  
“Never mind the rabble,” Metatron was saying. “What we really need to do is clear the garden out and get down to the business of figuring out what to do.” “You're confused, I know, but I can clear it all up.”

The souls were crying up to him, many prayers reached him. He heard the cry of 'Cas!' It was a very intimate thing, the shortening of his name, the removal of the tribute to his Father.

_Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space?_

_His name's Cas. What's your name?_

_Cas... Cas... I know you're in there. I know you can hear me. Cas. It's me._

Castiel looked up at his brother before him. 

He reached out and then grabbed the wrist of the arm with the tightly closed fist. He summoned his blade in the time between moments and as Metatron tried to pull back, Castiel neatly severed his hand from his arm. He backswung to take Metatron's head, but Metatron had his own blade, parried—and with a beat of wings, he vanished.

Everything inside Castiel wanted to give chase. To chase Metatron to the ends of the cosmos and smite him beyond recognition; but there were more pressing concerns. He pried at the fingers of the severed hand, peeled them open to reveal a human in the palm. He was broken, turning blue. Castiel released his blade back to its dimension and rolled the human into the palm of his own hand, dropping the severed limb to the ground below. He cupped this human in two of his hands, and he lifted him close to his mask, and he breathed grace into him to heal him.

**

Sam sank to his knees, shook his head. Jo grabbed his head, hugged it against herself. Bobby leaned over, put his hands on his knees.

“I'm dead and I'm too old for this,” he said. 

Ellen laughed, put her hands on her hips, kept looking up, watching Cas hold Dean close to his face. “Well, now what? Metatron took off, and the only one of us capable of catching him is busy with Dean.”

“He's secondary at the moment,” Alat said, the other angels murmured around her. “I can feel the spell weakening as we speak; now Castiel's grace is restored, it should create a negative space within it ,and it will fade away. Once that happens we'll be restored to our proper forms, return these humans who are with us to their homes and fix what Metatron has put asunder. You will of course return to your heavens and know peace.”

“We'll talk about that,” Ellen said. “I got a friend who thinks their needs to be tourist visas, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Wish he was here to see this, though. He'd love this garden.”

**

Dean opened his eyes and blinked them several times. He was lying on his back and the air around him was shimmery and glow-y and fuck, he was still in Metatron's hand, wasn't he? He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his head and glanced up at the mask before him. He started to say something, but then he noticed something was different. The mask itself was featureless, a smooth, shiny white surface, but the eyes regarding him weren't silver but blue: big, glassy blue circles that were staring at him with an unblinking stillness. He got on his knees, and then slapped his hands against the mask.

“Cas!” he cried.

**

“Hello, Dean,” Cas returned. Dean, yes, _Dean_ — and his memories righted themselves. “Metatron tried to kill you. I didn't know how to stop him, but then Jimmy came and he'd found my grace.” Cas placed a hand on his chest. “I kept him safe in here when the grace expanded my soul. Metatron fled and I would have followed, but you needed me. The others, they'll need me.” He trailed off, and Dean pressed himself against the mask. He cupped his palm over Dean, held him there. He wished for his vessel so he could greet Dean properly. It must be disconcerting for Dean to see him like this; but Dean was always tenacious and unabashed about things. When Dean pushed back, Cas moved his palm back and put two of his hands together to give Dean a platform to stand on.

“Dude, you have two animal heads on your shoulders and you don't seem to have any eyelids. Is there a face under the mask or is the mask your face and do the bird and deer talk?” 

Castiel wondered why he worried for even a moment about his appearance being disconcerting; but before he could reply, Dean rapid-fire borderline insulted him again.

“Do the animal heads eat or anything? Can they talk? Why do you have freaky extra heads? The extra set of arms is cool, Metadouche explained that; did he have extra heads? I think I was too busy dying to notice. Thanks for the save, by the way, can we go home now and you can put on Jimmy?”

“I'm sorry my heads are off putting,” Cas said. “I think we need to speak to the others on the ground.”

“Hey, come on, don't get all stiff on me. Your other heads are fine. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings about having three heads. I'm used to people with one head, so it was a little freaky, that's all, but not in a bad way. I just …do they know you and I are together and we have sex? Do they watch us have sex? I think you should have mentioned you had three heads when we got together, that's all. I think you know, that's some kind of courtesy, to your boyfriend. Oh by the way, is it okay if my other heads watch? I mean, I don't mind, I think, but you shoulda said.”

“Are you done?” Cas asked. “I'm going to alter my mass to get closer to the ground.”

“Nah,” Dean grinned, “I'm never done.” 

**

Dean suddenly got that feeling in the pit of his stomach; sort of like he was falling. He flailed around and grabbed onto a finger, holding it tight. Then the hand he was in started to drop, and he sucked in his breath, but the hand stopped, held steady again.

“Dean!” Sam cried. The fingers of the hand parted and Dean could see his brother there.. Dean blinked at him in surprise, then released his arms from around Cas' ring finger, slipped between them and dropped to the ground. Sam ran over to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him up and down. “You're okay,” he said needlessly. Then Jo was there, arms tight around Dean's neck as if to make him not okay at Sam's request.

“You dumbass! You weren't supposed to get caught!” she half-screamed in his ear. Then Bobby was thumping his back, and Ellen was giving him a look of bemused exasperation, and Pamela waved with a smile, and there were strangers, too. When he could pry Jo off, he looked around at them. 

“Hey,” was all he had to offer at the moment. 

One of the strangers moved up to where they were, craning her head up to look at Cas. “I'm Alat of the Seventh Hall,” she cried up to him, “Brother, we need to right what Metatron has done and bring our kin home!” She put her hand against a finger; Cas was still squatting with his hand on the ground.

Cas nodded, then seemingly reached into his chest with his own hand and then lowered that hand to the ground. The soul of Jimmy Novak climbed down from the palm and turned to look up at Cas. They didn't say anything to each other; Jimmy walked over to where the rest of them were.

“Good job, Jimmy,” Ellen said, smiling as he walked up, “that was brilliant and you saved us, Dean especially.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks, dude,” Dean said. “You okay?”

**

Castiel watched them. He had never felt so alien or apart from them as he did now. He used to, in his early days of walking the earth, feel something of an outsider. But a human, a righteous man, had pulled him in, had accepted him and showed him what belonging truly meant. He'd always thought he belonged in Heaven, but closeness and companionship and then love had shown him what his father had created on earth, and he had found he wanted more. He wanted the love of Dean Winchester and a life. Even if Dean was but a moment in his long existence, he still wanted to share that moment on earth. He had been uneasy with it then, and he still was to a degree now: _wanting something_. It wasn't really allowed.

But Dean had showed him the rules sometimes didn't matter: it was what was right and good and selfless that held sway. But wanting Dean wasn't exactly selfless. Castiel didn't care. Another dreadful influence learned at the feet of the elder Winchester, or maybe it had been learned in his bed. Dean leaned back against his hand, tilted his head to look up and back at Cas, and when he thought Cas was looking at him, he smiled.

Castiel wished for his vessel and to return to his life on earth and be with Dean for the rest of his; but Alat was watching him, too, and just where did the stronger obligation lie? He had inadvertently enabled Metatron to perpetuate great evil against his own kind. So the lessons of Heaven would prevail after all; he knew he must do what he could to set things right. That meant sending Dean home alone until the deed was done. And there was no telling how long it might take. He might miss his moment with Dean, and that was unexpectedly painful.

“We should get the humans home,” Alat said, “for there is much work to be done here.”

“Wait a minute, by humans, you mean me and Sam, right?” Dean turned to look up at Cas. “You're staying here, aren't you?” 

Castiel would prefer to have this conversation with Dean in private. “Can we talk about this after it's a bit calmer and I take you home?” 

“That's code for I'm going to tell you something you're not going to like,” Dean snorted, “but fine, whatever.”

“Party at the Roadhouse!” Jo suddenly yelled. “Come on, you gotta get trashed at least once in Heaven before you go back to being a living person; and we deserve it, and all you guys are invited, too!” She pointed at the assorted angels. “Hey, Cas, can you get to an acceptably reasonable height because you're gonna be a tight fit if you're going like that! Also, can you give us a lift? I mean if it's shorter than running all the way back. Oh, y'know, we need to try and find Ash, too. Nice of him to leave all the heavy lifting to us.”

“I can give you a lift and I can reduce my mass but past a certain point, without a vessel I'm afraid I will start to look like vaporous light to you,” Cas said. “It's harder to maintain a form, it takes a lot of energy to keep a perceptible shape at that density …”

“Come on, Mom, Bobby, Pamela, whoever wants to travel Angel Air! Cas is giving rides!” Jo proclaimed. Then ran over and climbed up into his palm. “Dean, Sam, shake it, let's go.”

**

Sam came over and boosted himself up and Dean followed more slowly; he accepted a hand up and plopped down on his ass. When Cas started to lift his hand up, everyone else sat, too. Dean kept his back to Cas and started gloomily at Sam instead until Sam started pretending to be interested in seeing if Cas had fingerprints to avoid looking at him. He flopped onto his back and closed his eyes instead. He left the sway of Cas' footsteps rock him. He was literally in the palm of his boyfriend's hand and he wasn't even alone: he was in a _group_ in the palm of his boyfriend's _hand_.

No one could ever say that again. That was a unique unto the cosmos sentence, copyrighted by Dean Winchester© and his inability to do anything normally. 

He was gonna get dumped. Dean didn't get dumped; he was always the dumper and never the dumpee. But he was now: Cas was gonna take him home and try to let him down easy, but this was Cas they were talking about, poster angel for awkward human social interchanges. It would be a mess. Cas would explain how he had to return to Heaven to help put right the great wrong he'd done, not realizing that just by the fact there were angels in Heaven again, he'd already done it. And then Dean would be a big, hairy, hot, mess of manly repression and lonely drinking; he could see it clearly. Sam would be sympathetic, and look at him sadly all the time, and try to get him to talk about his feelings, and wow, this was his life, huh? Welcome to it.

Suddenly his stomach tanked out and he knew they were being lowered to the ground. He sat up quickly, and sure enough, Cas opened his palm completely so they could just walk down his fingers to the ground below and over to the Roadhouse. Walking the dumpee plank, that is what it was; so he squared his jaw and he did it, he marched right down to the ground. Ash was coming out to greet them now, and there was hand shaking and congratulations and blah blah blah look we did it again, we're great big heroes, only Dean was a hero who was going to get dumped because of Cas' enormous martyr complex. He should have seen this coming, he really should have.

Only he didn't want to think about it anymore. He didn't want to think about anything remotely Cas-related at all. Then this giant glow stick came over and hugged him. He flailed his limbs and squeezed his eyes shut; pushed at the tall, gangly glowing thing until it let him go.

“You're upset with me,” it said. He could hear Cas in its voice, and he could hear bells and tinkling and maybe the wind blowing, and it was really weird. It was more the inflection than it was the tone; without Jimmy's vocal chords he guessed this was Cas unfiltered. 

“Look, I know what you're going to tell me, all right, I get it. You sound weird, you didn't sound this weird when you were enormous.” Dean was squinting now. “Can you hit the dimmer switch?”

“It's hard to adjust to this height,” Cas said again in a weird overlay of several voices at once; but he did start glowing dimmer until Dean could make out a sort of shape with four arms. “What do you think I'm going to tell you?”

“Cas, please. You're going to tell me how this was awesome, but now you're needed in Heaven and angels and humans are a bad idea anyways, and you're going to, I dunno, kiss me or something and then poof, you're gone.” Dean snorted, turned away. “You can do that now, you know, you don't gotta wait until we get downstairs again.”

He felt hands on his shoulders, his back; he felt something touch the back of his head, the mask probably, because Cas didn't have a nose. 

“No,” Cas said, “that's not what I want. Yes, I need to help my brothers and sisters, you can understand that, I know. But my place is with you. I wish to return to you.”

“When?” Dean demanded and was met with silence. He stood there a good few minutes before shrugging all the hands off and half-turning to face Cas. “Yeah, that's what I thought, so pretty much I could be dead before you're done up here. Save us both the trouble, Cas.” 

Dean waved him off. He started walking toward the bar, listening, waiting for Cas to come after him; but he didn't. Just as well.

**

“Finally!” Jo said when Dean walked in, “Were you out there getting some big hero macking?” but her grin faltered when Dean looked at her and walked on by. “Where's Cas?” she asked. He didn't answer her; instead he went to the bar and sat down next to Sam. Ellen just gave him a beer, didn't press him for any answers. He sat there a moment, then picked up his beer and retreated across the room to a table in the corner; and although they all watched him, they let him have this, they let him have his time alone.

He'd thought he could be happy; he had been there for a while, hadn't he? It had all been so brief. And here he'd sort of got into his head that he had a second chance, that somehow they could fix all of that “Cas dying and going to heaven” stuff, because that's how it worked for them. They died, they came back. That would be great, wouldn't it? A giant cosmic break in his giant cosmic cruddy life. But no, he got the one angel in heaven who actually gives a fuck about the order of the universe and thought that the burden of all creation rests on his giant shoulders and he had some obligation to the massive dicks he called his siblings; he got the angel who thought he couldn't ever be selfish and he couldn't ever have anything for himself.

He got the one fucking angel that was _just like him_.

But Dean didn't want that anymore. He _wanted_ ; he wanted what he wanted. His life, on earth, his brother, his car and most of all, _he wanted Cas_.

It was so fucking unfair, but his life had always been that way; why should it change now? 

He heard a footstep, he looked up. Ellen set another beer on the table in front of him. She sat down opposite him. So his five minutes of alone time were up, then; now he'd be expected to talk about it, and his feelings, and his resentment about having to endure this family tradition made him slouch and fold his arms and turn his face away.

“You okay, kid?” Ellen said, ignoring his attempts at erecting a force field to keep his sometimes overly concerned family at bay. 

He decided not to say anything. Instead he picked up the second beer, and took a healthy chug of it, and kept the bottled tilted against his lips, and didn't look at her directly.

“That good?” she said. “I take it something went on with you and Cas. You going to keep us in the dark about it? Seems to be we're supposed to be celebrating, but if something is keeping you from participating, then we'd really like to hear it. It's ain't hard to notice Cas isn't even here.”

“He's off wiping the other angels' asses, what more do you want to know?” Dean snorted, took another chug of beer.

“How about I reach over this table and smack some civility into your head for starters,” Ellen growled at him. “The more I need to know is what Cas did, or said, and what's going on from here? You know we need him to get you and Sam back home.”

“Glad you're in a rush to get rid of us, too,” Dean said, sitting up, putting the bottle back on the table. “All I've heard since I've been here is to take my ass home. Maybe I should have listened the first time.”

Ellen reached over then, clapped her hand on his arm. He looked at her, a bit wide eyed. There was pushing Ellen, then there was pushing Ellen; but cut him a break, he just got _dumped_.

“You got a lot of nerve being upset over someone else's overblown sense of obligation,” she said, then shook her head and sighed. “Is that what this is all about? Cas wants you to go home and he wants to stay and help put Heaven back in order?”

“So what? Now I'm a selfish prick, is that it? I can't help but think the fuckers got themselves into this mess, so why does Cas have to bail them out? He was fine on earth, even as a human, he was fine except for that little detail where he got shot and died, he was fine. He was happy even, I think.” Dean trailed off. Ellen slid her hand down his arm and put it over his hand. Fuck, just what he didn't want to do and yet here he was volunteering info. “I thought maybe he and I …” Dean heard himself say. Then he just shut up, because there, he'd spilled his fucking guts. He hoped she was happy: family tradition upheld and he didn't even have Baby here to lean against. After they'd sat there a few minutes he said, quietly, “I want to go home.” Ellen just nodded and squeezed his hand.

**

Jo watched her mother sit down with Dean. She looked at Bobby, who shook his head at her. Sam gave her a half-hearted shrug from where he was sitting next to Bobby. Yeah, okay, so maybe she had to butt out of that, but there was another member of this party missing. She marched around the bar and headed for the door. Ash jumped up to follow her, and together they went outside. She stopped and looked around, expecting there to be nothing — but to her great surprise, there was this weird, four armed figure they'd come to know as Cas, sitting on the porch swing at the end of the patio, looking pretty dejected. He was also still pretty big, even though he'd attempted to be more human-sized, and he was making the swing sag.

“We're out here for a pep talk, aren't we?” said Ash. Jo stopped and looked at him, hands on her hips.

“Yeah, we are, and you're actually kind of good at that. Look, you're the first friendly face he saw in heaven. You got him out of his own private Idaho and brought him to the Roadhouse.” Jo nodded toward Cas like Ash should go over and talk to him.

“Yeah, then I took him to see Jimmy and got him punched in the face,” Ash reminded her, “twice. You actually knew him before he died.” He sighed when Jo grabbed his hand. “Okay, fine.” He let her drag him over to the angel on the porch swing.

“Cas, we're out here to be the pep talk committee,” Jo said, and Cas lifted his mask to look at her. The elk on his shoulders flicked its ears, but otherwise ignored her; the eagle appeared to be asleep. “Ah, to hell with it, Cas, what happened? You and Dean seemed pretty tight when he first got up here.” she released Ash's hand and squeezed onto the bench beside Cas, and froze when the bench gave an ominous squeak. “Tell us about it. Maybe we could help,” she finally ventured, once she thought the bench wasn't going to splinter beneath them. 

Cas was all too eager to spill his guts; he had none of Dean's macho enhanced reservations.

“I don't know,” he said, sounding plaintive. “Dean thinks I am just going to abandon him for duty and I understand, in a way, why he would think that, as I've done it before, but this is different.” He put one of his hands on his chest. “I was human. I was human with a human soul and I can't forget that. I remember what it was like to feel like a human and I still love him. I don't know why he thinks any of that has changed. But he does, he thinks somehow, because I am this again, I've forgotten it all.”

“Well, then, you got to tell him that,” Ash said, “he's kind of hard-headed.”

“Boy, that's an understatement,” Jo snorted, “but Ash is right, you got to go in there and make him listen to you. I bet he stood out here and stonewalled everything you tried to say because he got it into his head he was right. It just makes you want to slap him sometimes. You need to go in there and get in his face, Cas, and tell him what you think. Don't just accept what he said and let it go at that. He's not always right you know.”

Cas seemed to hunch up his shoulders, and he looked between Ash and Jo a few times.

“I do know, but I feel I should let him feel as if he is; he's better at being a human than I am, he's been one longer.” Cas folded one set of his hands in his lap. The elk head half-turned toward his mask face and lipped at it; he used another hand to push it away. 

“Do they have names?” Ash sort of let burst out of him, and then shrunk back at Jo's hard look.

“Their names are Castiel,” Cas said, “they are me. I know humans have a hard time with the concept of being multi-dimensional. Dean was asking me if they ate,” he trailed off glumly. 

“Come inside and have a beer,” Jo said, standing up. “Come on, sulking out here isn't going to help, and why are you letting him get away with this? You said you loved him, I think you know he loves you or he wouldn't be acting like a jackass. You got four arms! I'd kick his butt,” Jo added with a grin. “Let's get you some liquid courage and let you go, come on.” She waved a hand back and forth at him. “I only got the two hands, but I'll let you hold one if you come inside.”

Castiel lifted his head and looked at her, then slowly reached with one of his hands and wrapped it around hers. Jo hissed in a breath, but kept smiling. First, his hand was huge; second, it kind of felt like an electric tingle and it ran up her arm, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Castiel then offered a hand to Ash, and Ash held up his own hands and shook his head.

“Mal Culo doesn't hold hands. He offers his support in other ways, like handing you beers.” He shrugged at Jo when she snorted at him. Then Castiel grabbed his hand anyway, and he half-yelped.

“It occurs to me that I don't have to follow your conventions when you are in my home,” Castiel said, rising and towering over them. “You are my friends, and even though I never knew you in life, Mal Culo, you have been nothing but kind to me in my death. I wish to show my support by holding your hand.”

“Dude, it feels like I got one hand on that old blender we had behind the bar and the other hand on the metal bucket sink! How are you doing that?” Ash said, obviously not offended by the hand-holding.

“Yeah!” Jo said, “I was trying to think what it was like, it feels like that! That blender was, like, from the fifties and it had a short or something. What is that, Cas?”

“I don't know, perhaps it is your interpretation of the pulses of my grace,” Cas said. Then Jo tugged on him and he ducked down to follow them into the bar.

**

Dean looked up as Jo came in, leading Cas by the hand and then …why the hell was Cas holding _Ash's_ hand? Oh, but what did Dean care, Cas dumped him already, so Cas was a free agent, right?

Ellen slapped his arm, stood up. “If you're going to look at him like that, at least talk to him,” she said, and smiled in exasperated fondness when Dean folded his arms and looked away. “Okay, have it your way,” she called over her shoulder as she walked over to her daughter leading an angel to the bar. “Heya, Cas, now that we're upstairs the brews gotta be a lot more potent, right? Let's try that round of shots again!”

Cas was looking at Dean, he could tell, so he didn't look toward the bar, but he sighed and closed his eyes when Cas answered Ellen.

“I've been asked to drink many beers at once since I have four hands and three notional mouths,” Cas said, sounding a little baffled.

“Well, I dunno, can you drink through the mask?” Jo said, “Could be you only got two mouths, but you can still hold four beers!”

“Watch the wings!” Bobby growled, and Pamela made a similar complaining noise, but Dean still refused to look. “Is that as small as you go?”

“If I want any coherence at all, yes,” Cas said, sounding very put out. “I'm sorry, I'll try to fold them in tighter. It would be much easier if I had my vessel here, uh, no offense.”

“Too late for any of that,” Dean heard Jimmy say. “But don't worry about it, I think I'm making peace with it.”

“Here, four beers!” Ash was saying, “In the big glass mugs, I figure an angel like you might appreciate what we got on tap. And … _holy crap, how did you do that_?” 

“Holy shit, you can drink through the mask,” Jo was laughing, “that's just fucking weird!”

“Joanna Beth, watch the mouth, I don't care if you are dead,” Ellen said. Dean finally looked up. There was this towering, giant, slightly glowing four-armed celestial being perched on a bar stool surrounded by his family. And by that, Dean didn't just mean his family, because Cas had earned his place in that family, too. Sam caught his eye, and looked like he might get up and come over, but Dean shook his head and slouched down. He took his empty beer bottle and picked at the label. Sam shrugged and turned back to the others.

“Make the eagle drink a beer!” Jo was yelling, “Hey, Castiel Eagle, you wanna beer?” Cas then obliged her by holding a mug up for the eagle head to stick its beak into, and Jo cheered. “All three of you at the same time!” she shouted. That's when Pamela turned on the jukebox and everyone got a round to drink at the same time that Cas was going to attempt to drink with all three mouths at once.

It sort of started to degenerate soon after that, because what did you know, it didn't take a liquor store to get an angel drunk in Heaven.

**

The party was in pretty full swing and Cas had knocked Bobby off his stool with his wings twice and the elk head was some kind of beer-swilling lush, and Dean happened to look up and see the mask turned in his direction, just looking at him. He ignored it at first, turning his head away, resentful that he was the only non-drunk in the place now. Hell, even Jimmy was rosy, and Pam was pretty much in Jimmy's lap. Sucked. He risked a glance at Cas again, and now the mask and the eagle were staring at him. He pulled a face, shrugged at Cas and rolled his eyes. Then Cas got up and knocked Bobby off his stool a third time, and it made Dean wonder why Bobby didn't just move, but then Cas was suddenly coming at him.

“I'm going to talk to you,” Cas said, pointing at him with three hands. The fourth hand was using the ceiling to steady himself. “And you're going to listen. I don't want any of your … there is a colloquialism about this …it has to do with your mouth. And I don't want it.” Cas sort of got lost a bit then. He stopped, swayed, shook his main head.

“You don't want any of his lip!” Jo shouted helpfully from the bar.

“Yes, thank you, Jo,” said the elk head, because it was facing Jo's way. “So, none of your lip, _Winchester_. Yes, I used your surname, just like your idol uses surnames when he means … serious things. Business, when he means business. Wayne, your idol Wayne, first name John, him.”

“You're drunk and you're going to fall on me,” Dean told him, jumping up from his chair. “I'm going outside.” That galvanized Cas back into motion, and Dean's eyes widened, then he yelped, then two of the four hands managed to grab him and they were fucking huge and apparently made of adamantium and he was forced back down in his chair and Cas loomed over him, then bent down and got the mask right in his face.

“No,” Cas said slowly, “you're going to stay in here and talk. I am certain that I'm enunciating clearly and I managed to tone down the reverb from my other vocal chords. Humans are so _limited_. I've never had to mute my chorus before; I have a fine singing voice, you should appreciate it more. I tried more than once to sing your praises when we were having sex. It was very difficult with the one set of chords, but you seemed to appreciate it, it always made you go harder and faster.”

“ _Okay, enough_ ,” Dean half shouted to drown Cas out. “That's personal stuff, like the personal space. I know good and damn well Sam had that talk with you, remember the TMI talk, you gotta remember that? Besides, what's to talk about, we had our talk,” Dean put a hand on the mask and tried to push it back with no success.

“Plenty,” Cas said, apparently unperturbed that Dean was pushing on his face. “You're making broad assumptions for me, and I don't appreciate it. What do you see when you look at me now that you didn't see when I was wearing a borrowed face? Should I be upset with your shortcomings in this regard? Is this like those shows where extremely shallow human men made highly uncalled-for remarks about women who aren't wearing make-up? It's like that, isn't it?”

“I told you about a million times to lay off daytime TV,” Dean said, “and, _no_ , it's not like _that_. What do you think I am? Do you think I'm like that? I'm that guy who cares about what you look like? I got news for you, I should have been more creeped out you _were_ wearing a borrowed face; how the fuck creepy is that? Y'know, Jimmy's sitting right over there, I'm sure this is creeping him the fuck out right now. You were wearing a dead guy, but no, my problem is with your back to nature look here? Come on, you know me better than that. You know what it is? It's your fucking overblown sense of responsibility!” Then Cas shook him and his forehead struck the mask. Dean flailed and got both hands on Cas' mask and pushed back. “What the fuck?”

“You can't talk about overblown senses of responsibility,” Cas informed him loudly. “That is an invitation to endless comparisons that could keep us at this for eternity. There's a colloquialism for this as well,” he half turned to look back at the bar. 

“Pot and kettle! Tell him it's the pot and kettle one!” Jo called.

“Yeah, thanks for all the eavesdropping, Jo,” Dean yelled back. “I get it, I got my own clusterfuck of happenstance going on here, too, but the point remains, you're dumping me!”

The bar got quiet then. Cas tilted his mask a bit and Dean had to be getting the hang of this now, because he could tell Cas looked confused.

“Colloquialism, Cas,” Dean supplied, “it means you don't want to be with me anymore.” Then his teeth absolutely rattled as Cas shook him some more.

“You don't get to decide that for me!” Cas said. “You're the one who taught me that I decide things for myself. You gave me _free will_ and you dare to make that decision for me?”

Cas released him then, stood up to his full height of just below the ceiling beams. All of his hands were clenched into fists and hanging at his side; Dean Winchester got the feeling he'd just crammed his foot into his mouth and all the way down to his spleen. But of course he still had to open his stupid mouth.

“Well, that's what you said, out there, you were gonna stay here and fix everything for everybody and I'll probably be dead by the time you're done,” Dean said, throwing his arms out in a shrug.

“ _No_ ,” Cas hissed, “that is what you _assumed_. I might have an understanding of how you work; of how you feed into your own guilt, but that doesn't mean I wish to be part of it. You weren't even willing to discuss it, you took it upon yourself to decide for me. It makes me wonder if, in fact, it's what you really want.”

“What? _No_!,” Dean cried, jumping to his feet, craning his head back to look up at Cas. “Why would I want that? We were happy, weren't we? I mean, I was; I felt like you were.” He rubbed his face. “Maybe I was giving you an out so you wouldn't feel guilty about wanting to stay up here and help? Have you thought about that? No. Maybe I was doing it for you.”

“Jo,” Cas said.

“Bullshit!” Jo sang out merrily.

“Yes, that,” Cas nodded and folded one set of arms. “All this extraneous false justification for your assumption is tiring,” Cas informed him coolly. “And even if you were doing it for me, stop it. I don't want you to self sacrifice for me; it's redundant, I would find a way to do it back and then it would cancel out any sacrifice on anyone's behalf.”

“You are drunk,” Dean said, “I don't even know what to say to that, because what _was_ that?”

“A plea for an alternative to our current situation where you will return to earth and die before I ever see you again. Remember that is your interpretation, not mine,” Cas said. “And if we are going to be technically realistic about it, upon your death you would come here and theoretically I'd see you again, but that's muddling the point. I also understand that time being a more finite thing to humans, it's much more precious. Now I find I can relate, having been human for a while and coming to terms with the fact that I did have a set parameter of fluid time in which to work. I found myself thinking it was not enough to spend with you.” Cas did what looked like a whole body shudder. “I didn't like time very much when I was human.”

“Okay, well, I'm not sure what to make of that, again, but somewhere in that you said you thought you didn't have enough time with me. That's the part I'm going to latch onto for this conversation,” Dean said. 

“I've had enough,” said a new voice from the bar area. “You two boneheads are just going to find a way to mess it up again, so let me make a suggestion,” Bobby sat his beer on the counter, turned on the bar stool and leaned back against the bar. “Make Heaven the nine to five job with holidays and weekends off. You're an angel for God's sake, colloquialism intended, you can commute. And what's more, I must be drunk for butting in on this, but someone has got to talk sense.”

Cas had been looking at Bobby, but now he turned back to Dean.

“When you died, all I could think about was that it was too short, I didn't have enough time,” Dean said. “You and me, we found this thing we both wanted, maybe even needed, but we didn't get enough time.” 

“Maybe we never will, but we should at least try,” Cas answered him. “Nine to five with holidays and weekends off.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay, we can try.” 

Then large hands were around him, and he was lifted. One hand was on his ass, supporting him, one cupping the back of his head, one edging under his shirt. He got his arms around Cas' neck; somewhat and kissing the mask was weird at first, but there were sorta lips there, like he could feel the face under the mask, and after, a few moments, it wasn't weird at all. Dean tried to get his legs around Cas, too, and he started having all sorts of strange, sorta kinky thoughts about, well, if Cas had three heads, six eyes and four arms, what other multiples did he have? Cas' fourth hand was now sort of rubbing on Dean's thigh suggestively, and Dean had more kinky thoughts about four hands and that led to some aggressive noises and then a chorus of _get a room_ from the bar area. Dean shot them a bird with one of his two arms. Then he pulled back, licked his lips, pressed his nose against the noseless mask.

“So, what else you hiding under that robe?” He wiggled his eyebrows, “Anything we gotta get a room for? I'm hoping multiple things we gotta get a room for,” then he grinned big because a) he was hilarious and b) that was a hell of a compliment. Then Cas ruined it all.

“I'm not sure.... _oh_. Oh, in this form I do not possess genitalia,” Cas informed him. “To be fair, my current vessel is the only vessel in which I paid attention to that, and I only paid attention after you paid attention. But, I have four hands,” he said cheerfully.

“Yeah, that's a definite plus, but how am I gonna …” he looked back toward the bar, which had gotten suspiciously quiet. Most everyone was staring in their direction, with the exception of Bobby, who was staring at his beer. “Uh, how about we go home and you put on your Jimmy suit,” Dean suggested, then immediately felt like the most insensitive jerk in the world because for fuck's sake, _Jimmy was right there._ “Let's just go,” Dean urged him, “we can discuss it there.”

“It's only Wednesday on Earth,” Cas said mournfully, “and it's … 11:30 am in Kansas; I have to work.”

“What? You …we just got through working that was enough working for a couple of weeks, you can take a Wednesday off!” Dean said, exasperated. He looked to the bar for vindication. No one there looked the slightest bit inclined to help him, so he snorted at them. “Cas, you're not working right now anyways, so you might as well take the rest of Wednesday off.”

“Do you really call it a Jimmy suit?!” Jimmy finally burst out, apparently unable to hold it back anymore. “Seriously, is that what you call it?”

“No-ooo,” Dean rolled his eyes. “We call it a vessel, tell him Cas, we call it a vessel.”

“Mostly we call it a vessel, but Dean does, on occasion, call it the Jimmy suit or meatsuit,” Cas said with a little shrug, arms still full of Dean.

Sam piped up then, because he had apparently decided to be drunkenly helpful. “He does, but don't worry, he likes it a lot. Cas mostly takes good care of it.” Sam raised his beer. “He just needs to learn to be quieter with it when it's go time, if you know what I mean.” Then Sam snorted drunkenly and laughed at his own joke and those around him groaned.

Cas then set Dean on his feet, even though Dean made annoyed protesting noises, and stood looking down at him. 

“You're right, I'm derelict in my duty, and if we're to make this work, then I have to adhere to the compromise we've reached. First I convey you and Sam home, then I'll return here and assist as I can until 5:00 pm, at which point I'll return to the bunker until 9:00 am the following day,” Cas told him, and held up a hand when Dean looked like he might protest. “Today is not a holiday,” he informed him. Then he turned, moved to the bar and plucked Sam from his bar stool. Sam, unused to being with someone larger, didn't really protest at this indignity and just looked at Dean with a mild drunken smile when Cas sat him down next to his brother.

“This blows,” Dean told Cas, straight up, “you been slacking all morning but now work is important? We were …celebrating, maybe not in the same way as everyone else and … can you really just … wait for _this_?” He made a vague gesture at himself, then whipped his head around to stare at the bar when someone laughed. “Shuddup, you're no help over there!”

“Are you going to say your goodbyes?” Cas asked Dean and Sam.

“No,” Dean said, “you'll be here every day, so we can just pass notes or something. Later!” Dean yelled toward the bar. “Some of you are losers!” 

Then he got a touch on the head, and so did Sam, and they were standing in the bunker war room. Mary Patricia spilled coffee all over herself, then got up and promptly took Sam up to bed, and Dean got pissed that his piece had to work until five.

**

“I'm late because even though someone knew I would be here by five, they failed to go and dig up my vessel.” Cas stretched and rolled onto his back. “You could have helped.”

“Your vessel was pretty ripe,” Dean said, lazy smile, scratching his hip. “I figured you could deal with that. Did you like the flowers Sam planted for you?” He rolled, molded himself to Cas' back and stuck his nose into Cas' hair.

“Yes, so thoughtful, I also notice you remembered my blanket.” Cas made a pleased rumbling sound; said blanket was wound around his legs. He turned his head to look back at Dean. “That must have been upsetting. My condolences.”

“Eh? Oh. Yeah, it was, but it's all good now.” Dean flopped an arm over Cas' waist and pulled him closer. “Uh, are you going to take lunch breaks at work?”

“I don't see why, I don't eat,” Cas said, sounding puzzled.

“I know, but it's required by law during a work day that's eight hours,” Dean said. He could almost feel Cas' confusion. “Thirty minutes at least. When I'm not on the road or working a case, we could have lunch together; how does that sound?”

“I wouldn't want to violate any conventional work-related laws,” Cas said, “though I expect this is a caveat you are making for yourself, since the rules of Earth do not apply in Heaven.” But he sounded amused. His hand covered Dean's where it was resting against his waist. “Very well, I will take a work-related lunch break of thirty minutes on days you are available. Noon to 12:30.”

“We don't gotta eat,” Dean told him, licking the back of his neck.

“No,” Cas sighed, “of course not. Why would I expect conventionality from you?”

“We could make it work even if I'm on a case, y'know. We'll have a motel room,” Dean said conversationally, ending with a yawn.

“I doubt Sam would appreciate that,” Cas told him. “He doesn't seem to appreciate it here where we are pretty much a hallway away. I think the bed next to him might be some sort of forbidden place. I don't appreciate getting TMI lectures, they bore me and Sam is very self-righteous when giving them.”

“You think that's all Sam's self-righteous about?” Dean chuckled. “We'll work on it.” He let his fingers rub absent circles against Cas' waist. “About what you said, I mean, yeah, it was upsetting. I was pretty upset. I was actually kind of devastated.” He stopped for a moment, wet his lips. “Cas, I think I need you to hear something from me; but I'm not sure how you'll handle it. It's a big deal because I haven't said it much. I uh, I don't tend to want to because, uh, nothing is permanent for me. But, I think you know, you should hear it, because this means something and I want you to know if something needed to stay permanent, this is what I'd pick.”

Cas was lying there, pliant, warm, head turned to look at Dean expectantly. When Dean tugged him to turn him onto his back, he complied easily, smiled up at Dean.

“Thank you. I'd pick this, too,” Cas said, reaching up to touch Dean's chin.

“Okay, great, great, but that's not it, that's not the thing I need to say to you. I, uh, wow,” he turned his face, laughed a little, “this is a lot harder actually doing it then when it was in my head.”

“Why?” Cas asked. “You can tell me, Dean. In truth, I've been meaning to ask you if you had reservations now that I'm no longer human. It's understandable if you do ,and I'd want them known so if it would make you comfortable,I could do my best to mimic my former human nature. I'm aware there is a certain alienness to the way I inhabit the vessel as an wavelength that wasn't there when it was my only form.”

Dean just gazed down at him a moment longer. “I love you,” he told him. That was what he'd wanted to tell him this whole time. Cas smiled up at him, put an arm around his neck.

“Good,” Cas told him, “because I have loved you, too. First I loved you because you were my Father's creation and you were my mission, but I love you now for myself. I love you, too.”

People who loved Dean had a way of leaving him; that was true. But if he let that be his motivation for holding people at arms length the rest of his life, what would he ever have? Once, not so long ago, that had been good enough for him. Maybe it wasn’t just Cas who’d learnt to look at things from a new perspective. Maybe it wasn’t just Cas who’d been renewed. Here was a new beginning with someone who could be by his side for the rest of his life and maybe beyond it, too.

“Yeah," Dean said, "that's good, because you know how the song goes, _all you need is love_ ”, He grinned big at Cas' baffled expression. “Even though you're an angel again I don't see any reason why you can't pick up where you left off in your exploration of the sixties. Trust me, you're gonna love the Beatles.”

Then Cas was kissing him and every thought in the world would just have to wait.

FINI


End file.
